A death of a friend takes you away from part of yourself, maybe even the better, brighter part of yourself, but the death of my mother removed the world from me.

Now the conversation with Maischberger does catch up on me, spools in my mind, and I wonder whether I said too much, the wrong things, exposed too much of myself.

unlikely collisions between different worlds and registers

This is what has been called the “dialectic of moss on stone — an interface of immensity and minuteness, of past and present, softness and hardness, stillness and vibrancy, yin and yang”

This is what has been called the “dialectic of moss on stone — an interface of immensity and minuteness, of past and present, softness and hardness, stillness and vibrancy, yin and yang”

In lieu of that deeper self-meaning, “the consumer realm is the place where many people can most consistently feel as though they are asserting their agency.”

Fake food is so appealing, I can’t say for sure why.

And as we watched and listened to these grown children, we wondered what bound us to each other. It wasn't blood or genes, only a present comprised of thousands of days spent together, words and gestures, meals, car trips, a great deal of shared experience that left no conscious trace.

I'm not really against authorship as a thing? I just don't like what it does to me when I'm believing in it.