All right, go ahead. Go ahead. Say it.

The life I live is irredeemably corrupt. It has no justification. I keep thinking that there’s this justification that I’ve written down somewhere on some little piece of paper, that I can’t remember what’s on the piece of paper, but that it’s sitting in the drawer of some desk in some room in some place I used to live. But in fact I’ll never find that little piece of paper, because there isn’t one, it doesn’t exist.

There’s no piece of paper that justifies what the beggar has and what I have. Standing naked beside the beggar — there’s no difference between her and me except a difference in luck. I don’t actually deserve to have a thousand times more than the beggar has. I don’t deserve to have two crusts of bread more.

Wallace Shawn, The Fever
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