When are struck by our own thanklessness? Pretty much never. We’re unbelievers, enamored of debris and the need of an audience. Even self-loathing becomes a narcissistic spectacle.

We are selectively and blindly ungrateful. We unconsciously decide who to appreciate and who to disown, and that usually changes each day. We are superficial by nature, only concerned with events and not with their consequences. We are selfish by nature, only concerned with people in relation to us and not from their own point of view.

We’re bad at remembering things, that’s why we write in the first place, and also that’s why we become artists, so we stop losing important information. I like to hold on to things I love after they’re gone.

Precautions become the law of the matter against beautiful hindrances. Our vocabulary is so limited when we address them, we repeat the same words until they weaken and die. On top of it, we are afraid of writing ill-written letters to them.

1 cup of secrets, 1/2 cup of anxiety, a tablespoon of disability. Stir and drink on an empty soul.