“I have a Russian soul” = code for “I drink a lot”

“Too ideacentric.”

You lie awake for hours unable to remember if the word is epitaph or epitath. Falling into blackness through a two-letter hole.

Opposable thumbs. You still have that going for you.
Oh yeah. You still have that.

Over the course of one sunny afternoon a stately ice shelf the size of Connecticut breaks loose and collapses into the ocean. You are dispersing. You have entered the floe.

In order to preserve energy, his last weeks were marked by a strict economy of means—pointing to an object, a nod yes or no. His final blog entry, posted at 4 am, read “blog entry.”

Whether nothing matters, or everything matters, it matters.

Going back to writing on tablets. Not electronic ones. Short pieces carved in stone.

All that time, all that work, adding up to so little.

Another evening of mutual assured destruction.

For unknown reasons, they were willing participants in their own spiritual and psychological extermination.

Looking back, it’s clear that you were far more ridiculous than you realized at the time, and that the same is true today.

Death is a growth industry.

Approaching the age of his father’s death, and exhibiting all of his worst traits and none of the good, he understood that the rest of his life was to be an experiment without an easy conclusion.