A man. A plan.
Diazepam.

He was a man of peace. The killing was done elsewhere.

His work appeared to consist of random isolated details drawn from our entire cultural apparatus, observed at various magnifications from the front or behind.

The cat who joins you at the back window to watch squirrels on the lawn; the dog who briefly rests his head on your lap on the bench in front of the food co-op; the toddler one table over, offering her bottle to you—all touchingly unaware of what a shit you are.

Although he thought of himself as a “regular” there, he always had to wait to be seated. One night as the hostess went looking for his table, he snuck a look at the note next to his reservation. It said asshole.

Certainty, in inverse proportion to intelligence.

He hadn’t done an honest piece of work since his unexpected success in 1968. Ego, more destructive than drugs or booze.

He was someone who could at the same time be held in the highest esteem and lowest contempt.

It was a period in history when, for whatever reason, people by default ended up in Portland.

When you have gone through all the layers of the self, its inmost nature, its essence, is nothing. You are nothing.
K., Public Talk 5, Madras (Chennai), 7 January 1978
He stood at the back window he had photographed a thousand times, without having really been there at all. Somehow, his fear had evaporated, and despite the knowledge that it might return at any time, he was grateful.

Shoveling wet, heavy snow in a rage, wind roaring in your ears, you find yourself hoping for a heart attack and thinking, how fucked up is that?

Graphic design: a study of margins.

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

Please, Lord, don’t make me have to be interesting today.

A great artist and an excruciating bore.

A vulgar preference for the novel over the good.

You lie awake for hours unable to remember if the word is epitaph or epitath. Falling into blackness through a two-letter hole.