Second saddest thing in the world: letting go.

He was hanging by a thread; he felt as though he would disintegrate in a light breeze.

Although he thought of himself as a “regular” there, he always had to wait to be seated. One night as the hostess went looking for his table, he snuck a look at the note next to his reservation. It said asshole.

There’s the chair she sat in, facing the door, hoping for a visit.

Everything I’ve lost, I want back.
Except for the bad parts; those you can keep.

Like many spiritual leaders, he had a far higher asshole quotient than one would have expected from his public persona.

The best advice I ever got, although for a time I didn’t take it that way. It wasn’t offered in kindness—just a curt STFU.

He was someone who could at the same time be held in the highest esteem and lowest contempt.

Can you tell me how to get to Sesame Street? Can we go back together, one of you still holding my hand, the other on my shoulder, vanishing around an invisible corner, down a leafy suburban street? I am weeping as I type this. You were Snuffy and I was the Count. The sky was a blue that no longer exists. I want my blue back.

Our lives flew by. Days piled up and were plowed under.

This is the only place on earth where I have final say.

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