Posting food on instagram = act of public defecation.

Sleep—when there’s nowhere else to go.

It took many years to understand how short a year is.

We had no money then, and what little we had we spent on drugs. Back when we were still friends. Before I annoyed you, and my hair looked like shit.

Reflected in the cafe window he saw a man of whom no one would take second notice, nor guess at his former imagined glories.

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.

Shoveling wet, heavy snow in a rage, wind roaring in your ears, you find yourself hoping for a heart attack and thinking, how fucked up is that?

I don’t think I’ll ever forget her bewildered expression as they drove her away.