Void.

“But there are some fears that are rational. It’s reasonable to be afraid of murder, or to feel troubled about existing as a speck on a space rock floating in colossal, silent darkness. Those are rational fears. They’re both fears that can’t really be faced. How am I supposed to cope with fears like that? I thought the only option was to be delusional. I thought everyone coped by imagining reality isn’t what it is—by ignoring the threat of murder, or by forgetting we’re in space—or by doing what I do. By repeatedly exposing yourself until the threats feel familiar, the shock wears off, and you’ve conditioned yourself to find what scares you pacifying.”
― Emily R. Austin, Interesting Facts about Space

“As for shame, that's my strength; I would even say it's my mother; I am born of her, I'm ashamed of her, I want her, I'm afraid of her; I could also say that she is my beloved; the way she is, the way I am with her, I can even say that we are as inseparable as the pupil from the eye and as the lovely Isolde from Tristan. She is my opening to the outside, she is my light and my death-bearer; I go through her to get to myself. I owe her even the discovery of my anatomy, an illumination in several chapters, and at the same time my discovery of social laws, of the Mosaic tables and of my sense of ownership. Shame upon shame, they put me together thus.”
― Hélène Cixous, Inside

“When I start reading I'm somewhere completely different, I'm in the text, it's amazing, I have to admit I've been dreaming, dreaming in a land of great beauty, I've been in the very heart of truth. Ten times a day, every day, I wonder at having wandered so far, and then, alienated from myself, a stranger to myself, I go home, walking the streets silently and in deep meditation, passing trams and cars and pedestrians in a cloud of books, the books I found that day and am carrying home in my briefcase.”
― Bohumil Hrabal , Too Loud a Solitude

“Because when I read, I don't really read; I pop a beautiful sentence into my mouth and suck it like a fruit drop, or I sip it like a liqueur until the thought dissolves in me like alcohol, infusing brain and heart and coursing on through the veins to the root of each blood vessel.”
― Bohumil Hrabal, Too Loud a Solitude