For grasping and impatient people like me, the sensation of not knowing is an irritant. Sitting with that sensation—doing nothing about it—well, that is nearly intolerable.

Finally, here was the world's constantly broken promise of transcendence, the cosmic wonder I'd chased impatiently ever since I was a child, rounding every corner with an eager smile that faltered just as quickly. I'd been waiting my whole life to find a feeling this big. It was a religious conversion.

I didn't know if it was my mind, the writing, or what, but I had trouble following the sentences. They moved strangely, like they were bent somewhere inside, the assertions like staircases that I followed into walls.

As it turned out, there was just no way to be interesting and an addict.