Figuratively speaking, he hit the windshield.
Figuratively speaking, it took weeks to clean him off.

August in the city when nobody gives a fuck anymore.

Self-loathing had almost cured him of hubris.

The things you joke about during the day can fill you with horror in the middle of the night.

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.

His had been a life of accomplishment to no one but him. For him it had been a miracle.

The truth, by the time it reaches your lips, is no longer true.

Your hearing starts to go, and then your vision—preparation for leaving this world.

To become accomplished is to experience a great loss.

All I can trust right now is this chair, bobbing between glaciers somewhere in the black North Atlantic.

Time reveals in some the bowling ball-head gene, and in others the cinderblock-head gene.

He spent the entire two-hour mindfulness seminar contemplating the drink he would have after.

I had always respected them, expecting nothing in return, which there wasn’t.

Book II:
After the booze ran out.