I wasn't safe. I wasn't permanent. My life was a fiction I had created, like an alien who comes to earth and tries to pass as human. The affections of my friends meant nothing to me, directed, as they were, toward a person who wasn't there. There was nobody home.
Robert Goolrick (2008). “The End of the World as We Know It: Scenes from a Life”, p.105, Algonquin Books
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