August in the city when nobody gives a fuck anymore.

The entire universe is made of sub-atomic particles.
Actually, just one particle, moving very fast.
The particle is getting old. The particle is wearing out. At first the disappearances are so small you don’t notice them. And then one day the color blue is gone, and you wonder if it ever existed to begin with.
I want my blue back.

This year there was no tree; no lights; no gifts; no family; no steamed cranberry pudding with hard sauce. What remained of our holiday spirit was the annual Christmas weed for the guys on the trash truck. You never want to piss them off.

The things you joke about during the day can fill you with dread in the middle of the night.

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.

At some point that year they renounced activities that assumed the existence of a viable future.

After years of rigorously eliminating everything pretentious, self-serving or inauthentic in his character, there was nothing left.

The billion flinches that rebuilt your face.

Once you’ve had a thought there’s no reason to ever have it again.

1) thought
2) first draft
3) revision
4) deletion

Who’s the asshole, somebody asked, and when he repeated the question I realized he was referring to me.

Becoming good at something is a kind of loss.

Writing about photography—more about writing than photography.

He still has the dream in which he’s continued working on his long-abandoned novel and only now, after all these years, realizes he will have to start over. He always wakes with a heaviness in his chest. It wasn’t until after his father died that he recognized the feeling. He’d always sensed life had a plan for him, and he’d been right. There just aren’t any words for it.