The illusion of control is the source of untold human misery.
They mourned their loss and then lived in its ashes.
A great artist and an excruciating bore.
Stock characters:
1) man with gangrenous wound.
I’m going to drag my shit hair and shit beard in my shit car over to my shitty ass apartment, think about your smug superiority and thank god that I’m not you.
Such beauty that the only suitable response would be to no longer exist.
This book would have been a labor of hate, never to be completed.
·
She said, you’re a true artist, but not a very good one.
·
Fuck it. I am going down in flames, somewhere out over the ocean. Or somewhere in a bar, in this undocumented summer. That will be my book.
I think about the beach cottage we always rented the first week or two of August. The photograph I took each day, hoping to preserve it all. The older couple we saw every year, who we never saw again. The roadside farm where we bought eggs, vegetables and topnecks. I wonder if the same books are on the shelves. I wonder if it has crumbled into the sea.
Observed in the waiting room of the School of Osteopathic Medicine:
1) Man in vomit-splashed pajama top, repeatedly asserting that he is both a lawyer and a doctor
2)
Not try anything. I think I’d be much happier that way.
If you could attain the ideal vibrational state… I’m thinking of that ice you get toward the end of winter. Little piles left over from the piles that melted. Inert little piles that just hang around.
In this state, ideally, one could absorb any number of blows to the face.
I love shit like that.
In the coming year, I think maybe something could happen for me. Something not bad. But only if I don’t want it too much.
It would have to come unbidden.
A single truth the mind has broken into many.
Your mind, trapped inside your mind.
His work appeared to consist of random isolated details drawn from our entire cultural apparatus, observed at various magnifications from the front or behind.
Looking over your life’s work, you think how meager it turns out to be, and of your son, who regards it with disdain.
Attempting to escape the feeling is worse than the feeling itself.
