I used to think about sex all the time, but now it's just money and death.

Incredible that misery has such variety and variation, enough to make a life.

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.