Essays and Fictions

I’m forty years old as I write this. And what I’ve learned, if I’ve learned anything at all, is that you need to reconcile living with your insatiable hole. You don’t have to love it, but you need to accept it. I’ve come to accept that I’m a fundamentally incomplete creature. Parts of me are missing. I can’t reassemble myself, as much as I’ve tried

It occurred to me that there was in fact no magazine, overt or hidden, that would not make sense in the waiting room of a psychotherapist. The

The minute you get into your dope is the minute you stop progressing in the progressive world. No need for new clothes, new music, new hair styles. Drugs are beautiful in the way they create a singularly focused mind.

I’m obnoxiously fastidious about language, particularly the way people speak, and I have very little patience for vocalized pauses such as um and like. Fung could compete on the international stage when it came to vocal filler.

William Eggleston once said that his entire body of work was an attempt to write a novel. I think my entire body of work is a suicide note.

One handsome man in a galaxy of authentication. Not threatening, yet not unthreatening.

Danny said it took at least twenty minutes of chasing the rooster in circles until the geometry lined up.

In the end, I only believe in Siddhartha Gautama and Bertrand Russell. And although I’ve published many things indicating otherwise, I believe the only truly original artists of the last one hundred odd years are Vladimir Nabokov and Patricia Highsmith.

I walked home with my deliquescing cock in my work pants, pretty much having forgotten I may have impregnated a very young girl, wondering what the fuck it was going to take to make me feel whole again, now that I knew it wasn’t sex. Enter drugs.