I had always respected them, expecting nothing in return, which there wasn’t.

Thank you for seeing me. I really think I’m un—
raveling.
Unrav—
Unraveling.
Wait—are you actually making fun of my voice?
Your choice of words. A bit maudlin and clichéd.
All words are clichés—that’s why they’re words, for fuck sake. I can’t believe I’m paying you 250 an hour—
And there it is—I wondered how long til you brought it up.

The things you joke about during the day can fill you with horror in the middle of the night.

Always never not letting go.

Richter in a documentary painting in a starched white shirt—is he just fucking with my OCD?

God, not as an entity, but a mental position affording consciousness safe navigation of reality.

He was currently drinking a fine “blended whisky”—mixed bottom-of-bottle dregs of bourbon, vodka, vermouth, and fernet-branca.

I was young. I thought I was an artist, but I didn’t even know what that meant. Looking back, I’m embarrassed—even now, for what is obvious to others but not to me.

You droned on, demolishing in the space of a few hours any previous possibility you might have been deemed interesting.

A tiny miscalculation, compounded daily.