20 years on, he didn’t know whether he should break down sobbing or smother her with a pillow. Probably both. He felt that way about most of his patients and it had worn him down. He was drinking too much, losing sleep and had developed a pronounced limp. Physician, destroy thyself.

Each morning he stepped out, felt the air on his skin, and gave thanks for this new reprieve.

For years he proceeded as if his activity had significance—a toddler solemnly pretend-working with blocks.

A near-mystical arrangement of personality quirks had aligned themselves to provoke disproportionate irritation in the people around him—a clearing of the throat might result in a shoe thrown at his head; a raised eyebrow could empty a room.

A feral hyena pack in a feeding frenzy, heads buried up to the neck in carcass of the New America.

Gratitude—the only way back.

Looking for the few right words that will fix everything.
Maybe next time.

Over the years, when I asked about other people’s work, he inevitably answered not so good. On a few rare occasions he said not so bad. I never dared ask about mine. I knew the answer.

The standing O triggered another harrowing bout of imposter’s syndrome.

I was young. I thought I was an artist, but I didn’t even know what that meant. Looking back, I’m embarrassed—even now, for what was obvious to others but not to me.

Submitted the piece. The response: needs more dopamine.

The collection exclusively featured images of mayhem and disaster.

On Sunday night he put on his work suit and sat in a chair until dawn.

Trying to breathe while holding your breath is no way to live.