Your turn has come to sift through the dreck of humanity for rare specks of originality.  Chaos is more freedom; in fact, total freedom. There are many ways to drown; only the most obvious wave their arms as they're going under. You realise that our mistrust of the future makes it hard to give up the past. Take root in the ground, live in harmony with the wind, plant your seeds in the winter, and rejoice with the birds in the coming of spring. You've been asleep for almost nine hours. 

Things change. Always do. You'll get your chance. The important thing is, when it comes, you've got to grab with both hands and hold on tight. The creature denies happiness. You can't win, but there are alternatives to fighting. It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate and provoke study. Passion has little to do with euphoria and everything to do with patience. It is not about feeling good. It is about endurance. Like patience, passion comes from the same Latin root: pati. It does not mean to flow with exuberance. It means to suffer. The best thing is to suffer mutely and yearn for a rescuer, but suppose a rescuer doesn't come? Don't you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you're not taking advantage of it? Do you realise you've lived nearly half the time you have to live already? Eventually we all have to accept full and total responsibility for our actions, everything we have done, and have not done.

You are afraid of it because it is stronger than you; you hate it because you are afraid of it; you love it because you cannot subdue it to your will. Only the unsubduable can be loved. Nobody trusts anybody now, and we're all very tired. People have to talk about something just to keep their voice boxes in working order so they'll have good voice boxes in case there's ever anything really meaningful to say. Better never means better for everyone; it always means worse, for some. Give me an honest con man any day. People try so hard to believe in leaders, pitifully hard. But we no sooner get a popular reformer or politician or soldier or writer or philosopher — a Roosevelt, a Tolstoy, a Wood, a Shaw, a Nietzsche, than the cross-currents of criticism wash him away. My Lord, no man can stand prominence these days. It's the surest path to obscurity. People get sick of hearing the same name over and over. The same ruthlessness and aggression concealed within a set of polite conventions.

We're so trendy we can't even escape ourselves—looking through the bent back tulips to see how the other half live. Anybody who has had a great treasure has always led a precarious existence. It seems to leave the darkness rather blacker than before. Many human beings say that they enjoy the winter, but what they really enjoy is feeling proof against it. Living by your wits is always knowing where the wasps are—as one wakened from a beautiful dream, who struggles to recall but can recapture nothing but a dim sense of the beauty in it. Happiness is obsolete: uneconomic. There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life, and beyond which life cannot rise. And such is the paradox of living, this ecstasy comes when one is most alive, and it comes as a complete forgetfulness that one is alive.

We refuse to live our lives alone and sell out the only friends we've known.

( T H E R E A R E T H I E V E S A T W O R K H E R E )