Black is not sad. Bright colors are what depresses me. They’re so…empty. Black is poetic. How do you imagine a poet? In a bright yellow jacket? Probably not.
Funny how we think of romance as always involving two, when the romance of solitude can be ever so much more delicious and intense. Alone, the world offers itself freely to us. To be unmasked, it has no choice.
Profound boredom, drifting here and there in the abysses of our existence like a muffling fog, removes all things and men and oneself along with it into a remarkable indifference. This boredom reveals being as a whole.
He stumbled into Portfolio Day late, hungover and unshaven, and proceeded to terrorize local design students with tales of his many professional disappointments. Later that evening he found himself at a pistol range, drunk as usual.