My old friend appeared at the door. He had always been, if not vain, fastidious in his presentation. Now he was only partly shaven, with his shirt worn inside out. “Rand,” he whispered, “Thank God.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look so exhausted. He dragged his fingers through his long greying hair and waved me in. The apartment was nearly bare, with a recliner parked in its center—the site of his long, lonely vigil.

Watching in disbelief as the unthinkable becomes inevitable.

In the last year of his life, his work was monochromatic. Yellow, the color of his yearning.

Richter in a documentary painting in a starched white shirt—is he just fucking with my OCD?

Surrounded by chaos and devastation, he felt at ease. His inner and outer worlds had reached equilibrium

Last week we had dinner together for the first time in 20 years. In the long run, gravity always wins.

The promise of the future has receded into the distant past.

Mistaking scale for importance,
ambition for significance.

 {German word for missing something before it’s gone}