A vulgar preference for the novel over the good.

They weren’t real likes, they were pity likes.

Every night you experience something far stranger than any drug.

He’d finally reached a minimum level of accommodation to his perception of reality.

The residue of your thoughts and actions. You built this house; live in it.

Once you’ve had a thought there’s no reason to ever have it again.

A world held together by duct tape and magical thinking.

You discover too late the meaning of too late.

After his death even his journals were found to consist of vague, ambiguous and purposely misleading statements.

He referred to his projects rather ecumenically as items. Although each was minutely embedded in particularity, the overwhelming force of his attention rendered them in some sense uniform.

Apparently it’s The Summer of Josh Brolin. If one is to fully engage in contemporary life, one needs to grapple with the notion of Josh Brolin-ness.