It's noble to want to confess, but if the results are just damage and pain, that's not noble. It's selfish.

Repetition is the death of art.

Happiness just wasn't part of the job description back then. You tried to find a helpmate to keep the cold wind and dogs at bay. Happiness just wasn't part of the equation. Survival was.

I live in the present due to the constraints of the Space-Time Continuum.

My masculinity isn't hinged on whether or not I knit.

The fact that when we die we are nothing more than worm meat---I just don't think about it.