Attempting to escape the feeling is worse than the feeling itself.

Today is normally a non-drinking day, but yesterday was a holiday.

Sitting in this chair, trying to not piss anyone off.

In the end it just exhausts you to death.

Why did we try so hard, why did we care? We never learned to play the game. We didn’t even know there was a game.

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.

You know you locked the door, but it couldn’t hurt to check. And that’s when the trouble begins.

Work that withholds its methods or motives, or is a result of a process unrelated to the final result, or has a clever title that provokes in the viewer an unexpected reassessment, or which through a brutal economy of means affects a disproportionate response, or is so unapologetically stupid that it makes intelligence, craft or elegance seem frivolous.