3310.

The movie ended happily because books end sadly and life is a series of non-endings.

3310.

The peeing was restful.

3309.

That was the day he hadn't listened to music incessantly.

3308.

At this point he had become drowsy and retired to bed.

3307.

He had sat cross-legged long enough for his feet to go numb and tingly, asleep themselves.

3306.

The sambuca allowed him to succumb to the beauty of weariness.

3305.

The figure of death was beautiful in its simplicity.

3304.

Only through nothing was something possible.

3303.

He had wanted to say“ough.”

3302.

The reason was that he had found no matter to it.

3301.

She was his heroin (spelling assumed).

3300.

In his imagination, there had been snow, because it was winter, so deeply and in so many ways.

3299.

No terror to it, despite intent, only longing.

3298.

At 2 in the morning that day, he was sitting in the dark watching a movie on his laptop and drinking a little sambuca to quell his stomach.

3297.

He pinched the basil leaves off the stem, as he used to do in his garden, and dropped them into his pho.

3296.

He felt the lotus tea, a warm perfume, slide slightly roughly across the tongue.

3296.

He felt the lotus tea, a warm perfume, slide slightly roughly across the tongue.

3295.

It was the same day he had used the term “cogitative cul-de-sac.”

3294.

Time for every goodbye projected on a wall.

3293.

He tried to imagine everything he had forgotten, but it was too large to imagine, so he tried to imagine everything he needed to know, but that was even larger.

3292.

Cold, he lived a block from where he worked, a block from where he lived.

3291.

The white shirt hung before him, off a chair rail, motionless, yet still a ghost, a ghost of himself.

3290.

He moved towards a destination but sitting, still and silently, in place.

3289.

A small glass of sambuca he considered for his restless stomach.

3288.

The sounds were like the rustling of a house.

3287.

He had learned not to care.

3286.

As the knife fell and he reached to catch it without even looking, he could feel the blade slip into the tip of his middle finger.

3285.

He left greatness to the sun.

3284.

What he knew was so cluttered by what he had to believe that he could make his way not to the smallest truth.

3283.

He was sixth for the sick day.

3282.

If he had had a grandchild, he would have nicknamed it peepoop (never with a capital).

3281.

It was enough sickness to make him groggy.

3280.

Specifically, these were two swollen glands against his throat, each large enough to fry with a little butter into an ample lunch.

3279.

He dreamed, in only a second, that he was sitting in the balcony of the staircase.

3278.

He was almost too tired to type, but not quite, not quite.

3277.

He pitied that winged ant that could do nothing more than backflips in his sink, that was trapped by a repetition it had no way of changing.

3276.

The color was rain.

3275.

He decided to write a novel entitled The Color of Memoury.

3274.

His disappearance was linguistic.

3273.

"Enough darkness for sleeping," he whispered to nothing in particular.

3272.

The woman in the elevator was the one who smelled of soap.

3271.

He had told the man he would show him the way out, but the man said he knew the way, so he watched him walk in the wrong direction and turned away himself and left.

3270.

It was the closest experience he had to sleep, so he accepted it.

3269.

At which point he finished the scotch.

3268.

He considered the idea that living only leads to death.

3267.

He rubbed the herbs between his hands and into the stew: first sage, then oregano, then thyme.

3266.

He had been preparing a stew during this time, although he had no flour to thicken it.

3265.

He could not move forward, but he could stop.

3264.

He ate grapefruit.

3263.

He looked through the third clear bottle on the sill.

3262.

A bright white rice reheated in butter and speckled with large grindings of black pepper seemed to him beautiful enough to taste.

3261.

He appreciated the brokenness of it, even if he didn't appreciate its beauty.

3260.

I don't want to die; I just don't want to live was the thought.

3259.

He spoke and he heard someone (or, he asked himself, so he heard someone?).

3258.

He had resolved not to leave his home that entire long weekend, from the moment he had arrived there for work until the moment he left for work again.

3257.

Suddenly, he had a headache that cracked through the voice inside his head.

3256.

He danced alone over the yellow wood in sunlight with music.

3255.

A little dog barked, somewhere below him, for hours.

3254.

He didn't remember he had had amnesia.

3253.

A little Oban made it a warmer toddy.

3252.

His bundle of oregano fell to the floor, a few of its leaves scattering.

3251.

His black shirt had fallen into a pile of shadow behind the chair against the wall.

3250.

Yes, he thought, waking was not preferable to sleeping.

3249.

As he lay down to take a nap, he thought, Sleeping is better than waking.

3248.

He saw no more reason to be awake.

3247.

The pain medicine left him groggy all day, but the pain never left him.

3246.

When he arrived for his ultrasound, he discovered that his doctor's office had needed to have given him a prescription for the procedure, and that is how he found himself in his third waiting room of the afternoon.

3245.

The receptionist told him she would be back with his papers.

3244.

The new waiting room was merely annoying in a different way.

3243.

When she told him he would need an ultrasound of his leg, he asked if it were to make sure the baby was okay.

3242.

The physician’s assistant told him that he should remember the names of his medicines, but he said he didn't have space in his mind for such trivia.

3241.

There was no reason for the bruise to appear eight days after the accident and lower than the site of contact and on the other side of the thigh.

3240.

The nurse noticed that his ties was a pattern of ladybugs.

3239.

If he caught the scent at just the right angle, he noticed that the oil of bergamot in his tea smelled like Froot Loops.

3238.

That was their word for “window.”

3237.

It was that sound he heard most often.

3236.

It did not matter of he died so long as he explained himself before he did.

3235.

He could not count up to tomorrow.

3234.

He did not know why she said she was Bhuddist when she was Christian and he was neither.

3233.

His lips were tingling be because he was alone.

3232.

He did not want to repeat himself though he knew it was impossible for him not to repeat himself.

3231.

The edges of the mirror began to fog after he opened the shower curtain.

3230.

As he recalled the discovery, he realized he had been sitting in a dark room and did not know the bat was flying figure 8s in the room until he turned on the lights and all was revealed to him.

3229.

He decided he should go to sleep that morning, the night having passed an hour before.

3228.

Everything had become ago.

3227.

She had become a shadow, so with every step he took he stood on the sole of her foot.

3226.

He had begun to remember all of his dreams, and their message was singular and clear: "You don't understand anything."

3225.

The bruise on the inside of his thigh was so deep that it seemed to go through his leg.

3224.

He limped to office.

3223.

The mirror faced the mirror.

3222.

He realized there was no tree, there never was a tree.

3221.

It was a strange night: he added ice to his Armagnac and thought it was good.

3220.

He could never catch up with the numbers he had lost.

3219.

Balancing, she thought, always led to falling.

3218.

She looked in the other direction.

3217.

The apartment was too warm for him.

3216.

He didn't need to be told.

3215.

His lower back hurt after he had finished with the dishes, but it was not the worst pain.

3214.

Expectations, he learned, presented themselves in many ways, but usually with words.

3213.

The man shook his hand as he left after dinner.

3212.

He loved his red pimple atop his bald head because it suited him.