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A novel, left along a road, picked apart by crows.

Is talking to yourself also communicating with other presences?

Number one problem facing humanity: irony.

No word from you since our last talk. What it is—you can’t believe no contact. You think less contact. Not no contact.

Let it go. The world doesn’t need another photograph.

Art that withholds its methods or motives, or is a result of a process unrelated to the final result, or has a clever title that provokes in the viewer an unexpected reassessment, or which through a brutal economy of means affects a disproportionate response, or is so unapologetically stupid that it makes intelligence, craft or elegance seem frivolous.

The story of a blogger, who blogged himself to death.

The vastness of his inner desolation was grotesquely disproportionate to his worldly significance.

Compassion—the only way back.

If we admitted how terrifying life is,
would we need more drugs, or less?

Petty irritants you will treasure on your deathbed: morning airport smell of coffee, jet fuel, passenger body functions.

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