And at the end of all my searching, I came to understand: I loved the algorithm.

Why is “like a painting” seen as a compliment to the photographer?

With age he had become invisible to increasing portions of the population; in compensation, he began to see them more clearly.

Senses diminished but still delivering a convincing reality.

What you wrote, I thought about it what it might have meant, and I don’t think it meant anything.
What I wrote wasn’t about what I wrote. It was about what you might think about it.

The gift of language: miracle and catastrophe.

He mumbled something about having gone through “some stuff” and then proceeded with a horrific tale of his afflictions, bereavements, addictions and injuries in the ten years since I had last seen him. It was a miracle he was still alive. Nevertheless, I had to admit, he still looked better than I did.

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

I suspect the only true answer to pretty much anything is maybe.

He was someone in whose presence you felt a semblance of yourself.

It was a period in history when, for whatever reason, people by default ended up in Portland.

In the dream a doctor told me I was going blind. I ran out into the street, just seeing.
In total, these pictures represent three seconds of my life. Maybe some day you’ll find them. My three seconds. My last will and testament.

Decades later, encouraged by a friend to obtain his old psychiatric reports, he was mortified to read what he had perceived to be a courageous hero’s journey described as the petulant dithering of a timid neurotic.

Mon
Stepped outside. Seemed gross. Went back inside.
Tue
Same.
Thurs
—
Next week sometime
Birds, wind. Weeping.

That year’s dismal mingled scent of burnt coffee, jet fuel, lavatory disinfectant. Now you’d give anything to have it back.