I did it. I reached the door. Now, I regret everything.
The time loop seems to repeat about every five minutes these days. It’s only a matter of time before we reach mass capacity.
It’s hard to determine a picture from a single puzzle piece.
Sartre writes that hell is other people. Obviously, he had never been here.
Something big’s going to happen today. Wait.
Something big’s going to happen today. I just know it. It’s been foreseen.
I can’t drink my coffee. My hands are too small, and the cup is too big.
I have doomed us all. It cannot be undone. Again.
I have a routine every morning. Had.
I gave Bill a haircut today. Now he’s bigger than ever.
“Hello,” I said. “I bet you weren’t expecting to find me here.” I wasn’t.
How much time passes at the bottom of a lunch box? Minutes? Hours? None at all?