Beneath the zeitgeisty affectations he was an old school creepy letcher photographer guy.

Route 73 roadkill, returned to earth after months as public spectacle, I salute you.

Whenever I see an advertisement cut to a soundtrack of “What a Wonderful World,” I always feel like I’m being sold a great big steaming pile of shit.

Thirty years after the loss of their son they still look for him in restaurants—the man at the corner table, laughing with his beautiful wife, waiting for someone to join them.

Their rigorously maintained veneer of civility lasted 90 seconds into his birthday toast.

The vastness of his inner desolation was grotesquely disproportionate to his worldly significance.

The symbol of the cross, which refers to the indivisible nature of the spirit and the incarnate existence it is nailed to.

Is your work keeping you young, or making you old?

He had lately been spending as much time as possible in the company of animals. No animal had ever ridiculed him, nor regarded him with pity, scorn, or disappointment. Well, possibly disappointment. He could live with that.

She told him that people with high self-esteem lacked imagination.

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

Resolutions, born of regret, nightly, always betrayed the next day.

He couldn’t take great prose. The thought of someone having written it was too exhausting.

Certainty, in inverse proportion to intelligence.

Visible: not a good look for me.

A ghost in a dream in a story by an anonymous author on a deactivated account of a defunct social media platform.

She was his truth, his bellwether and moral compass. Without her he was lost, but also he was just plain lost.