The notes and sketches were without exception more interesting than the final product.

1) artworks you have ruined with personal associations:

The weeks streak by. A decade used to be a year.

Death is a growth industry.

I can just picture you giving a TED talk, pacing the stage in one of those fucking headphone getups, starting each sentence with the word “so,” thinking it makes you less of an asshole.

On Sunday night he put on his work suit and sat in a chair until dawn.

The more complex the organism the more objectionable its putrefaction.

His grand opus, a masterpiece of omission.

In the dream a doctor told me I was going blind. I ran out into the street, just seeing.
In total, these pictures represent three seconds of my life. Maybe some day you’ll find them. My three seconds. My last will and testament.

At one celebratory banquet, Mr. Aldrin was breathlessly asked, “Tell us how it really felt to be on the moon!” Afterward, he rushed outside into an alley and wept.

With a shocking lack of hesitation, she was gone. In an instant he was turned inside out, a pile of guts on the sidewalk.
It would have been a year in May, hey hey hey.

I am convinced, after years of study, that surfing is the truest model of incarnate existence. Not that I’ve ever surfed, or could explain the justifications for my statement. That would take years.

Some forgot to wash. Some forgot to eat. Some gazed absently as they drank milk from the bottom of a cereal bowl.

She was his truth, his bellwether and moral compass. Without her he was lost, but also he was just plain lost.

He had a hard time listening to people whose voices sounded as if they knew they were likable.