Obituary
In the mid-eighties he appeared in a series of unnamed minor roles in second-tier John Hughes movies. His credit was always listed as “popped collar.”

Mistaking scale for importance,
ambition for significance.

Glimpsing my reflection in a window, I think I understand your irritation when you see me coming—that ponderous expression as I fail to grasp the obvious.

Observed in the waiting room of the School of Osteopathic Medicine:
1) Man in vomit-splashed pajama top, repeatedly asserting that he is both a lawyer and a doctor
2)

The cat who joins you at the back window to watch squirrels on the lawn; the dog who briefly rests his head on your lap on the bench in front of the food co-op; the toddler one table over, offering her bottle to you—all touchingly unaware of what a shit you are.

A late summer afternoon that already feels over. There was a life here, wasn’t there? You can almost still hear it. A wedding; you gave a speech that left no impression. This is how it will be after you’re gone. As if it never happened.

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

Dinner with old friends, drinking wine and cackling at your clever remarks. Morning remorse. When will you learn to shut the fuck up?