The universe has been generous enough to offer you the opportunity to fail—utterly—yet again, and you have predictably accepted without a moment of hesitation or gratitude, or even being aware of it.

The people around him were often depressed. He was a “carrier.”

The inbred entitlement of the once-attractive.

In her twenties she was pretty, by her thirties beautiful. And now, finally, she was as ugly as she’d always felt.

Liked, respected, trusted, admired—
Those are off the table, I’m afraid…
Feared?
(embarrassed cough)
Tolerated?
We might be able to work with that.

We all have those rare friends who seem to generate an irresistable force field that draws people to them. I have the opposite power; my side of the room is always dependably empty and silent.

Going back to writing on tablets. Not electronic ones. Short pieces carved in stone.

When Rotten sang no future
this is what he meant

(A) resulting from a curational interest in the subject of the photograph; (B) from a formal interest in the photograph itself; (C) from a formal interest in the results of curational interest.

Her family was small and she had no real friends. She supposed that if her parents had thought about it they would have considered her a disappointment. Yet somehow her heart was still bursting with the sadness and joy of living, a sensation so painful that she sought oblivion by any means available.

Sunday morning: half dead but fully alive.

Realization: you’ll never get those days back again.
Realization: you don’t want to.

Looking through the eyes of the photograph itself.

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