After his death many of his journal and notebook entries were found to have the notation “FE.” His final post, in its entirety, was “failed experiment.”

In the fullness of the bleakness of late November a nod of gratitude for this day.

He wanted things to add up, but they didn’t.
Some were less, and some were more.

What if God is the world stripped of advertising?

He said, with exaggerated sadness, as if embarrassed for me, your work is very earnest. 

People seldom remembered having already met him.

Strolling my country estate at dawn, assessing last night’s damage. In the driveway, the burnt out husk of my beloved white 1972 Dodge Polara, crushed as if dropped nose first from a crane; in the fountain, two white swans, dead from apparent malnutrition; on my hands, two blood-caked bandages. Opposable thumbs: the last thing separating man from animal.

Death is a growth industry.

And then, gradually, fear becomes your way of life.

A lot of what is called low self-esteem is simply seeing yourself as others do.

Don’t look away. The ugly beauty might surprise you.

This just in: internet preferable to all previous human endeavor.

My note of condolence marked the beginning of the end of our friendship. Evidently grief over the loss of a cat doesn’t yield a permissible amount of insight into the the death of someone’s parent.