Fourteen year old girl, April 19, 2009
Today is Thursday. I saw my therapist. We doubled the dosage.
All I can think is one more time from the beginning.

In the space of a few months your hair and clothing begin to fall awkwardly on you—or maybe you just begin to notice.

He said, with exaggerated sadness, as if embarrassed for me, your work is very earnest. 

We miss you terribly, without the comfort of knowing our love and respect was reciprocated.

When someone tells you they’re behind you “1000 percent,” you know you’re on the way out.

August in the city when nobody gives a fuck anymore.

The next level in luxury, disease-free living.

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

Compulsive thinking, fitful sleeping, and endless, endless trips to the bathroom.

To feel the beauty in all of existence, but not in oneself.

The few minutes each evening this time of year when the back windows flood with wild monkey light and birdcalls echo through the trees. Something in you lifts and you feel the heaviness of what you’ve become.

“We liked drinking together, but even more than that we liked drinking alone.”

In order to preserve energy, his last weeks were marked by a strict economy of means—pointing to an object, a nod yes or no. His final blog entry, posted at 4 am, read “blog entry.”

God, not as an entity, but a mental position affording consciousness safe navigation of reality.