"She had the perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very, dangerous to live even one day."
— Virginia Woolf (Mrs. Dalloway)


i have always tried to be honest to myself, until then, what i tell may be true,
may be the truth. but what if we don't have the abstract object called truth.
what if the world is full of shit and lies, what if those amiable lies invade my land, i do nothing, save saying 'alright. shoot me down in your arms.' that's why we aren't citizens. we are always a foreigner or immigrant in men's land. there's no such subjectivity. i don't have my own room, if i do, it's only a minor one.