Posting food on instagram = act of public defecation.

What’s really being said is what’s been left unsaid.

This person is part of the person that was that person. You don’t get to choose the part that’s convenient.

Each sleepless night between the hours of 2 and 5 you traverse a vast region where your failings are laid bare under the moon’s implacable light.

Hearing these happy songs after so many years. False memories of an ease you never acquired.

The group repudiated any suggestion of esthetic joy or gestural flourish in its practice. Details not grounded in rigorously defended academic theory were ruthlessly prosecuted. Working there was like joining the Taliban.

A funeral in the rain, attended by five people who knew him online.

A listing vessel with a massive hole in its bow, drifting at sea. That is me, he thought—miraculously still afloat.

The future hasn’t aged well.

If you were any good at this, someone would have noticed by now.

Diagnosis: zero personality disorder.