Life happened; he never knew what hit him.

Obituary
In the mid-eighties he appeared in a series of unnamed minor roles in second-tier John Hughes movies. His credit was always listed as “popped collar.”

On Sunday night he put on his work suit and sat in a chair until dawn.

He survived by expecting almost nothing while accepting almost everything.

Did you have a reason for each of these esthetic choices, other than “just for the hell of it?”
Fuck no.

The more complex the organism the more objectionable its putrefaction.

Lost in a forest of assumptions.

For the past three weeks he’d remained in his apartment, reliving old humiliations and hate-watching Love Actually. Rent was due tomorrow. His thoughts, increasingly, centered on death, disaster, failure, madness. But mostly he was just scared.
Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee.

Each meme a chunk of life replaced by an x/y coordinate, gone forever.

At one celebratory banquet, Mr. Aldrin was breathlessly asked, “Tell us how it really felt to be on the moon!” Afterward, he rushed outside into an alley and wept.

In all those years I never came close to pulling it off. But I won’t stop trying—and failing massively—to the end.

Whether nothing matters, or everything matters, it matters.

The sole perspective that I may have, that you may not have, in your privileged existence, is of time.

In compensation for his collapsing dignity and self respect he found himself engaged in escalating acts of grandiose generosity.