twenty-seven years and one million words
I swam in the ocean, today.
Been something I've been meaning to do since I got back. It was beautifully cold. Then I tried to walk around the seawall, still in my trunks. And those trunks still chafe; you'd have thought I'd a learned when I walked the whole beach in Manzanillo. Nope.
The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love, and in order to occupy and distract himself without love he gives way to passions and coarse pleasures, and sinks to bestiality in his vices, all from continual lying to other men and to himself.
—Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov