There’s the chair she sat in, facing the door, hoping for a visit.

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.

For the past three weeks he’d remained in his apartment, reliving old humiliations and hate-watching Love Actually. Rent was due tomorrow. His thoughts, increasingly, centered on death, disaster, failure, madness. But mostly he was just scared.
Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee.

Pity, that is to say, empathy tinged with ridicule.

Yeah, I get it, but I don’t really get it. If I did, I’d probably drop dead on the spot.

Sleep—when there’s nowhere else to go.

Love of jargon, inversely proportional to love of truth.

I can’t imagine feeling any sadder, or any more grateful. Or scared.

Alprazolam
Clonazepam
Diazepam
Lorazepam

First law of thermodynamics: any time a medication falls to the floor, it ends up in the most inaccessible space possible.

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 is obvious to others but not to me.

The notes and sketches were without exception more interesting than the final product.