Sometimes it is easier to feel the veins wilted and empty than to sense the coldness of blood in fear
The problem with making a virtual world of oneself is akin to the problem with projecting ourselves onto a cyberworld: there’s no end of virtual spaces in which to seek stimulation, but their very endlessness, the perpetual stimulation without satisfaction, becomes imprisoning.
She’d cried over a broken heart before. She knew what that felt like, and it didn’t feel like this. Her heart felt not so much broken as just … empty. It felt like she was an outline empty in the middle. The outline cried senselessly for the absent middle. The past cried for the present that was nothing.
Empty complaints are the sources of everyday failure, but not the problem being complained about. Problems are solvable; but not with complaints. A complainer is just an explainer of problems!
If your love for another person doesn’t include loving yourself then your love is incomplete.
Only those who are empty within, seek to suppress those around them
Alone, I often fall down into nothingness. I must push my foot stealthily lest I should fall off the edge of the world into nothingness. I have to bang my head against some hard door to call myself back to the body.
An empty street sucks your fullness; a full street fills your emptiness!
When love becomes a play of squirming mindgames or a tinderbox of mental conflicts, emotional benchmarks need an unremitting reset. (“Another empty room”)
On those occasions when he had killed in the dark, he later needed to see his victims’ faces because, in some unlit corner of his heart, he half expected to find his own face looking up at him, ice-white and dead-eyed. “Deep down,” the dream-victim had said, “You know that you’re already dead yourself, burnt out inside. You realize that you have far more in common with your victims after you’ve killed them than before.