He received the crushing news with a resignation born of decades of unrealized hopes.

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.”

the music, which is death
the art, which is death
the season, which is death
the moment, which is death
the sound, which is death
the light, which is death
the wind, which is death
the voice, which is death
the laughter, which is death
the love, which is death

He recognized nothing of himself in photographs or in the impressions he made upon others.

I’m the kind of person who, if you know me, you either pretend not to see, or cross the street to avoid. I didn’t arrive at this awareness through self-knowledge, but only recently, through observation. Inwardly I feel nothing like the ponderous bore I sense myself to be in your presence. Perhaps this perceptual gap accounts for the spirit of unspecified ridicule I’ve always felt hovering about our interactions. Now that I understand it, my memories finally begin to make sense.

When does “verge of collapse” become actual collapse?

Parked in front of a liquor store, a Titus Andronicus song comes on and you find yourself sobbing. One of your grandfathers was maudlin, the other erratic and violent. You’ve always oscillated between the two, but lately there’s been no in-between.

He didn’t want to be that guy who didn’t want to be that guy.

She was his truth, his bellwether and moral compass. Without her he was lost, but also he was just plain lost.

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