If you were any good at this, someone would have noticed by now.

As we threw out the remains of the litter box we realized this was the last vestige of his physical presence—a fittingly catlike form of scattering ashes—and cried like babies.

In the fullness of the bleakness of late November a nod of gratitude for this day.

Still, I prefer the present—your present face. The past holds nothing for me.

As ideas, opinions, and beliefs slowly metastasize into ignorance.

Something else you said… it left a bad feeling. I’m trying to remember what it was. I meant to get back to it—on account of not wanting my emotions to send destructive signals to my body. Like right now, I’m… rather than letting go, I’m nursing my resentment, which if I’m not careful—
Cancer.
Bingo. Or ignoring it—
Auto-immune.
Exactly. Which leaves us…
Heart attack—of course.

Someone reports that Jeff Goldblum is dining at the Griddle Cafe. He is wearing mirrored sunglasses. Someone asks how tan he is.

The people around him were often depressed. He was a “carrier.”

He came roaring out of school and hit a 50 year wall of indifference. Life, baby.

Suffering has made you ugly, which is beautiful.