Is your work keeping you young, or making you old?

Such sky, such earth, such trees, such absent leaves (which will return), such peace (that won’t), all this past and future splendor I leave you.

The gift of language: miracle and catastrophe.

The seventies were shit; the eighties sucked ass; he barely remembered the nineties; and everything after 2000 was lost in a haze of self-loathing.
Things were looking up.

Public servants selflessly dedicated to destroying as many lives as possible.

Passing the funeral parade, he noticed a woman in dark glasses stopped at a red light, weeping without consolation or restraint. How he envied that dead man.

You find yourself, at age 38, in possession of an “artistic personality” without the accompanying talent, skill, discipline, or intelligence. In short, an asshole.

Whether nothing matters, or everything matters, it matters.

Attempting to escape the feeling is worse than the feeling itself.

Notes for a series of notes.