“Contentment is a lie invented by capitalism,” Art School Rachel says,

Like a good book or an incredible outfit, being on vacation transports you into another version of yourself.

(where we eat both breakfast and lunch in their café in silence while Alex reads Murakami and I take notes for future reference from a stack of Lonely Planet guides).

Living, being responsible for myself, seems like an insurmountable challenge lately.

You can’t outrun yourself. Not your history, not your fears, not the parts of yourself you’re worried are wrong.

No. I really could not have invented him.

She was tinier than me and fierce, a lover of murder mysteries and crocheting, spicy food and modern art.

“This car,” Alex says, “isn’t going to live long enough to see the end of the Star Wars franchise.” “But who among us will?” I say.

“I’m saying,” Rachel replies, “that purpose matters more than contentment. You had a ton of career goals, which gave you purpose. One by one, you met them. Et voilà: no purpose.” “So I need new goals.” She nods emphatically.