"Real depression, the narrator insists, is different. To me it's like being completely, totally, utterly sick. I will try to explain what I mean. Imagine feeling really sick to your stomach. Now imagine your whole body being sick like that. Imagine that every cell in your body, every single cell in your body, is as sick as that nauseated stomach. Not just your own cells even but the E. coli and lactobacilli too. The mitochondria basal bodies, all sick and boiling, hot like maggots in your neck, your brain, all over, everywhere, in everything. All just sick as hell. Now imagine that every single atom in every single cell in your body is sick like that. Sick. Intolerably sick. And every proton and neutron and every atom swollen and throbbing off-color. Sick with just no chance of throwing up to relieve the feeling. Every electron is sick. Here, twirling off balance and all erratic in these funhouse orbitals that are just thick and swirling with modelled yellow and purple poisoned gases. Everything off-balance and woozy. But even this doesn't capture the overwhelming experience of depression for the narrator. The bad thing is you...Nothing else. You are the sickness yourself. You realize all this, here. And that I guess is when you look at the black hole, and it's wearing your face. That's when the bad thing just absolutely eats you up. Or rather when you just eat yourself up. When you kill yourself. All this business about people committing suicide when they're severely depressed, we say, holy cow, we must stop them from killing themselves! That's wrong. Because all these people have you see, at this time, have already killed themselves where it really counts. When they commit suicide, they are just being orderly."

-David Foster Wallace