She was his truth, his bellwether and moral compass. Without her he was lost, but also he was just plain lost.

He was currently drinking a fine “blended whisky”—mixed bottom-of-bottle dregs of bourbon, vodka, vermouth, and fernet-branca.

The standing O triggered another harrowing bout of imposter’s syndrome.

the austere beauty of winter
the power of forgiveness
the market is not the economy
nina simone
the male or female gaze
blah blah etc etc

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

The one thing you have in common:
desperation.

What’s the problem?
No idea, really. It’s quite the mystery.
How does it manifest?
Microagressions, slamming drawers, muttering, occasionally striking oneself on the head with a crystal paperweight. The usual.
Does it leave a mark?
Only above the hairline.

The group repudiated any suggestion of esthetic joy or gestural flourish in its practice. Details not grounded in rigorously defended academic theory were ruthlessly prosecuted. Working there was like joining the Taliban.

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

Bring a little generosity when you look; you might be missing something.

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