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

For years I saw him once a day with his after-work drink and loosened tie, desultorily watering the lawn with his free hand. After a few minutes she’d join him, in her Jackie Kennedy white pants, smoking a cigarette and regarding him through narrowed eyes. When he’d finished his drink he’d throw the ice in the bushes before they went back inside. I never figured out if they hated each other or were deeply in love.

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

Figuratively speaking, he hit the windshield.
Figuratively speaking, it took weeks to clean him off.

The warm cascade of neurotransmitters he received from making false promises dwarfed the inevitable damage to its recipients. That may even have been some of its appeal.

The level of stupidity was loosely commensurate to the level of ambition.

The things that always made me cringe are what I miss the most. Awkward or naive comments that were evidence of her sweet nature, eager to engage, that I wish I had embraced.

Because their abject suffering represented an affront to the fragile belief systems of those around them, they were held responsible for their own misfortune.

The universe deposits money in our accounts every day, in the form of reality.

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.