You’re not your job. You’re not how much money you have in the bank. You’re not the car you drive. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You’re not your fucking khakis. You’re the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.
“I have begun this diary as a safeguard, a control against a suicidal impulse to declare myself openly. I am writing it in a corner of my room, out of the range of the tele-screen. But what I write here and whether I go on with this will make no difference. I have committed the essential crime by thinking of a diary. Thoughtcrime is death.”