I’m of ten minds on the subject.
Would I give up a lifetime for one more day with you? In a second.
Why is “like a painting” seen as a compliment to the photographer?
Richter in a documentary painting in a starched white shirt—is he just fucking with my OCD?
For years I proceeded as if my activity had significance—a toddler solemnly pretend-working with blocks.
Reaching a late August level of nihilism when it’s only the first week in July.
He felt uncomfortable with any reminder of his objective existence.
A vulgar preference for the novel over the good.
Sooner or later, one way or another, the workplace will steal your dignity.
The ninth month of the pandemic brought daily, unannounced weeping, an involuntary physical impulse that felt part of some collective global balancing, almost like—
A rice cooker letting off steam?
No, that’s fucking stupid. *Coughs. But maybe.
A volcano? A cat purring?
Plunging your eczematic hands into a bubbling vat of lye?
Yes, yes, that too.