He told me that he didn’t much care what he did during the day as long as he could drink at the end of it.

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

Over the years the simple act of finding the precise words had seemed to mitigate his inner collapse. But they weren’t the right words; he’d been a fool.

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

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

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