Figuratively speaking, he hit the windshield.
Figuratively speaking, it took weeks to clean him off.

I’m of ten minds on the subject.

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

He was hanging by a thread; he felt as though he would disintegrate in a light breeze.

Throughout that troubled interlude, he felt this spirit, roughly translated as house wind, watching over him.

Opposable thumbs. You still have that going for you.
Oh yeah. You still have that.

The promise of lawn sprinklers in the sun, that’s all over now.

Dinner with old friends, drinking wine and cackling at your clever remarks. Morning remorse. When will you learn to shut the fuck up?

He hadn’t done an honest piece of work since his unexpected success in 1968. Ego, more destructive than drugs or booze.

I keep thinking we might be able to reverse-engineer this whole fucking disaster.

Thank you for seeing me. I really think I’m un—
raveling.
Unrav—
Unraveling.
Wait—are you actually making fun of my voice?
Your choice of words. A bit maudlin and clichéd.
All words are clichés—that’s why they’re words, for fuck sake. I can’t believe I’m paying you 250 an hour—
And there it is—I wondered how long til you brought it up.