Please, Lord, don’t make me have to be interesting today.

Once you’ve had a thought there’s no reason to ever have it again.

It took many years to understand how short a year is.

Twenty years ago a stranger stopped you on the street and said “Some day you, too, will look like Dylan Thomas.” You thought of it often over the years, but less and less. Now, looking in the mirror, you get it. Not Dylan Thomas, exactly, but someone equally unrecognizable to your inner, younger self.

Little soul, you came so far to be here, on the other side of your mother’s skin.

I feel great sadness over my anger at your continued presence.

Do gorillas throw shit in the wild?

He was in a dark place. Actually, a black hole.

I was young. I thought I was an artist, but I didn’t even know what that meant. Looking back, I’m embarrassed—even now, for what is obvious to others but not to me.

He was a bundle of damage, everything mixed around and put back in the wrong order.

It was the shortest day of the year and somewhere along the way the bottom had dropped out.

Richter in a documentary painting in a starched white shirt—is he just fucking with my OCD?

Is the thought worth the effort it would take to express itself in words?

Beneath the excitement of travel was a core of sadness, knowing this would become the memory of a place he’d seen for the last time.

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