Night lifts over another sleepless dawn; a cacophony of birds in their vast canopy. Wordless. Hallelujah.

He told me that when his drinking was at its worst, the only thing that kept him from suicide was the thought he’d never be able to have another one.

I know you by your habits; the grooves you have cut in the world; the familiar boredoms I would miss beyond all else.

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.

The personal quirks you’d hoped were endearing turn out to be profoundly irritating to the people around you.

“Poland was a rainy place with a lot of crows, man, and it was beautiful.”

Layers to cover your ruined body, dark glasses for your ruined eyes.

I have composed and destroyed countless works between the hours of 2 and 5 am.

Shoveling wet, heavy snow in a rage, wind roaring in your ears, you find yourself hoping for a heart attack and thinking, how fucked up is that?

Far too finely wrought to be good.

He still has the dream in which he’s continued working on his long-abandoned novel and only now, after all these years, realizes he will have to start over. He always wakes with a heaviness in his chest. It wasn’t until after his father died that he recognized the feeling. He’d always sensed life had a plan for him, and he’d been right. There just aren’t any words for it.