Reflected in the cafe window he saw a man of whom no one would take second notice, nor guess at his former imagined glories.

The two primary obstacles to improvement were (1) starting, and (2) continuing.

He had developed a theory of literature based on cockney rhyming slang. His final work was entitled “Gertrude,” but the book contained no person or thing of that name.

Normally he anticipated this cold black season with dread, but this year it suited him. It was what he deserved. He was locked in for the siege.

All music will eventually be drumming.

Look at you, still believing in your shit.

Not really a grid, but grid-signifying ornamentation.

God regrets to announce that he is wiping us off the face of the earth.

I don’t even look in the mirror—why would I take a selfie?

After his death many of his journal and notebook entries were found to have the notation “FE.” His final post, in its entirety, was “failed experiment.”

Sick with worry, half-mad with hope. Talking to an empty room. Help is on its way.

Like many films of the period, it featured a sociopathic hero, a saintly villain and the default bloody Jackson Pollock ending.

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

“We liked drinking together, but even more than that we liked drinking alone.”