I know with unqualified certainty that I want to die. But I also know with equivalent certainty that I won't do anything about it. That I will only remain here and wait for death to indulge me.

Everything is very nearly over. And so none of the normal rules of behavior apply. And so none of my actions can have consequences.

But I know I will do neither; nothing. I have all the time in the world, and yet, I can't be bothered.

I tried to think of a vice I want to sacrifice, and ended up reasoning that I need my bad habits, desperately, just to coax myself through each day.

The director of the Road Safety Authority comes on the radio to tell me that today is the day of the year upon which more people die in car accidents than on any other, as though if he tells me this I might postpone the car accident I had scheduled; I might remember not to be so common, so vulgar, as to die today.

I knew precisely what things I wanted to do—and when and why—and I was deeply resentful of other people's attempts to enforce structure on my days.