Any provisional understanding of what’s going on in your head is comforting—even if that understanding is a fiction. Rather than therapy, I look to the stars.
How can something as trivial as one’s hygiene rituals have such an impact on how happy or successful others perceive you to be?
Chess devoured my life, until I was sweating in a suit at the Bangkok Chess Tournament feeling myself slip into the void.
Are we in it together if someone refuses the context needed to see this thing changed?
The well person has the job of translating the images that the sick person has left behind as evidence.
Reading her work is the most pressing unfinished business of my career as a writer, yet I’ve avoided it for fear that witnessing its brilliance would reflect back my inferiority.
Searching for the ease that comes with unspeakable wealth, from counterfeit markets in Bangkok to money at the bottom of a barrel.
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