Death is a growth industry.

Someone reports that Jeff Goldblum is dining at the Griddle Cafe. He is wearing mirrored sunglasses. Someone asks how tan he is.

He couldn’t take great prose. The thought of someone having written it was too exhausting.

the austere beauty of winter
the power of forgiveness
the market is not the economy
nina simone
the male or female gaze
blah blah etc etc

That year’s mingled scent of burnt coffee, jet fuel, lavatory disinfectant. Dismal at the time, now you’d give anything to have it back.

By April, life has killed you.

A man. A plan.
Diazepam.

Each meme a chunk of life replaced by an x/y coordinate, gone forever.

There was more art in her household chores of a single afternoon than in his entire creative lifetime.

Shitting on a tablecloth, expecting it to sort itself into a menu and an eight course meal.