Then somehow it all works, despite looking bad on paper, and the idea of getting old seems a good one, to be welcomed.

"We'll get through this," I think, "together and mostly unharmed."

Then I take another hit of the joint and see stars.

 I wasn't a good man, and got what I deserved.

So many people smarter, more focused and hard-working than me, a man who decided to drop out of life and found that it went on regardless.

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.