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Maybe. Always maybe. So every sentence may deserve a maybe. Maybe.

I love this empty space. But I fear that if I sit there, I might have to think about life. Therefore, I never sit.

For 99% of human history, life was survival. Meaning came later, uninvited.

You are 37 trillion cells. They all, somehow, agreed to be you.

We treat life like a rough draft, always planning to revise it later.

Every week is a sentence. Tuesday is the verb.

We assume life has a shape. It may be a series of unrelated moments. That, somehow, is enough.

Don’t save your good ideas for Friday. They expire.

Decide with the information you have. More is coming, also uncertain.

We know Constantinople fell in 1453. We don’t know it fell on a Tuesday. The day of the week may matter more, though.