Darryl

Be for real, people. Honesty counts. And don’t assume we can all see the irony. We just see the face you show us.

Watch your wife take yards of dick from an endless succession of surfer guys named Blake and Kenny with identical Puka shell necklaces and short blonde beards.

I don’t know, is my life this way because I want it to be? Is there something I’m supposed to be learning from it?

she kept talking about “drama.” I think these people sort of live in hell, fighting over scraps, over nothing.

But here’s an observation: I have this endlessly elaborate interior monologue, right? I feel like I’m always narrating. But everyone I love is full of silence. Whether that’s Clive’s coldness, Bill’s inarticulate masculinity, Satori’s oceanic depths. So where’s my silent place? Or are they all chattering to themselves inwardly just like I am? Maybe

I finally saw what all of this has to do with meditation. Then I fell into the void of it.

It’s just social conformity but to a group that cuts across time. There’s a simpler word for that. It’s an aesthetic.

There’s no possible limit to humiliation.

I think the way they do, it’s just that everything they say is wrong.