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

Standing at the back window, sipping coffee and watching the traffic light change colors in the rain. Your world is coming back to you. Soon it will all be too much—but for now you’re grateful.

My participation in events to which I’d thought myself central, I came to realize, went mostly unnoticed.

Driving back, you remember the hopeful innocent you were just a week ago, still on your way. 

They didn’t know it yet, but they’d worn out their welcome before they arrived.

Look at you, still believing in your shit.

If you make the mistake of asking him something, his eyes glaze over and his mouth twitches into the private smile of a predator who’s just found his victim. Well, he says, that’s an interesting question. In the endless pause that follows, you think, oh shit, we’re in for it now.

Another word for conceptual: simplistic.