A ghost in a dream in a story by an anonymous author on a deactivated account of a defunct social media platform.

For a short time you get a free pass,
but then the shit starts to hit the fan.

There’s the chair she sat in, facing the door, hoping for a visit.

An unfortunate sequence of poor decisions had brought him here, to this chair, in the dark, unable to feel his feet.

He was in a dark place. Actually, a black hole.

Long after your actions and their results, the residue of your intentions.

I’d rather be here, with you, for the worst that could happen, than anywhere else, for the best.

There was an uneasiness between us. They always gave me booze for Christmas. It was the one thing they knew I liked.

It was a period in history when, for whatever reason, people by default ended up in Portland.

In the last year of his life, his work was monochromatic. Yellow, the color of his yearning.

Graphic design: a study of margins.

Whenever he spoke you would inevitably hear a faint muttered “cunt” off in the distance.

How did you get this far without learning anything? Flattery doesn’t mean they love you. This is business. They will pick your bones dry.

We all have those rare friends who seem to generate an irresistable force field that draws people to them. I have the opposite power; my side of the room is always dependably empty and silent.