A season of grey drizzle, jet fuel, burnt coffee, lavatory disinfectant. Looking back, it all seems rather exotic. I miss it. I’m so tired. So sad. So angry. If we met now, I wonder if you’d know me.

It’s amazing how far an attractive avatar can take you today’s world.

She said, Hell, for me, would be eternity, with you.

Finally, she said, after all these years, I feel truly seen. At this point the problem is, I want to be unseen.

Layers to cover your ruined body, dark glasses for your ruined eyes.

February in the city, when nobody gives a fuck anymore.

Whenever I see an advertisement cut to a soundtrack of “What a Wonderful World,” I always feel like I’m being sold a great big steaming pile of shit.

Far too finely wrought to be good.

An unfinished novel, left along a road, picked apart by crows.

He is survived by his Instagram feed and beloved Spotify playlist.

Certainty, in inverse proportion to intelligence.

We all fell apart, while they just got younger and younger.

Thirty years after the loss of their son they still look for him in restaurants—the man at the corner table, laughing with his beautiful wife, waiting for someone to join them.

Number one problem facing humanity: irony.

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

In the harmonious spaces and bright clear sunlight of this elegant house, you feel an acute awareness of how coarse and awkward you’ve become. If only the light could pass right through you.

Memory will have to suffice.

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