Reading the obituaries, and the relief that this will end for everyone.

The absolute perfection of my social isolation, reduced to commercial transactions and gawking.

No one will remember our ecstasy.

I had the kingdom of myself, at the loss of the world.

At a certain point the aim was just to stay in good health while maintaining my vices, or at least to ensure that the end, when it came, was exceptionally rapid, without much fuss or expense.

“I'm not here to put on a show,” I said, “I'm here to explore the limits of my being.”

And yet I ended every day with a beer and a bong, watching the years slip away and my life fail to grow, until all youth was over.

How will you escape death - by wealth, fame, art, sex, health, love, technology, family and/or fitness?

(There's no escape.)

There was no fall from grace.

I used to be far, far more fucked up.

All my life is running away from damage, my only peace those moments stolen from despair.

I go back in time, to an age before it all went wrong, when I was still unborn.

Inside there’s infinity and bliss, so I’ll keep dancing, no matter how absurd.