From The Moment:

Cleaning out the drawers around the house, I find old charger cables, out-of-date medications, a Kindle we’ve never used, a toothbrush, a pregnancy test kit, letters, stones and figurines that S. says are important to her, and an old notebook of mine. It’s mostly blank. There are lines here and there, written in pubs, before the last time writing fizzled out:

Frightening thought: you’re an impostor who doesn’t know the extent of his own imposture. Worse, the imposture that stands between you and the world, that is your world.

The fear that everything is outside of itself. Buildings, trees, people, all scattered among each other, other than themselves. Nothing can come to itself because nothing really is. The world is one giant diversion from itself, an error.

The fear that everything is the same. That you’re a thing among things, emerging from sameness only to be swallowed by the same again. The days pass under the usual blind sky, unable to change or begin. Time, slowed to a crawl. Time, endless.

The pub toilet. Haze. The face in the mirror can’t see itself. You go back to the table and hear your mouth saying words, mouthing lies. Sudden plunges. Sinkholes of time.

But now a new urgency: shed all that like old scales. Find new words.