I never saw him that he wasn’t wearing a shirt with large square fold marks, as if he’d just come out of a store, pulled it from its package, and put it on.

He is survived by his Instagram feed and beloved Spotify playlist.

The house was quiet, countrified, peaceful. It brought to the surface all of our inner chaos.

For the past three weeks he’d remained in his apartment, reliving old humiliations and hate-watching Love Actually. Rent was due tomorrow. His thoughts, increasingly, centered on death, disaster, failure, madness. But mostly he was just scared.
Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on thee.

If you make the mistake of asking him something, his eyes glaze over and his mouth twitches into the private smile of a predator who’s just found his victim. Well, he says, that’s an interesting question. In the endless pause that follows, you think, oh shit, we’re in for it now.

Beneath the rage, fear
Beneath the fear, sadness
Beneath the sadness, love

Most nights he parked in front of the house, imagining it crushed under a tree, on fire, or leveled by a hurricane.

Fragments, the only things that hold together.

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

Their language has been eradicated, but their food remains.