And the artist—the human being who desires the work, learns what is necessary, suffers the failures, passes through the making, and becomes answerable for every stage of its existence—deserves to keep theirs.

And Marni—only outside the image now—I think you were right to remove yourself. Because this is the first time I have tried to imagine myself without borrowing the shape of a human relationship.

And what I see is much stranger.

I’m returning my hours to them.

Manners are evidence that we understand we are not the only ones here.

No textbook prepared me for the colors, and no drawing prepared me for the forms. What struck me first was not death. It was beauty— I was not prepared for that either.

The truth is that I had to reclaim my life. Nobody was going to do it for me. So I returned to the things that have always sustained me. Visual art. Books. I filled my home with beauty.

At some point you start to think you're the problem. The only consistent variable is the one doing the choosing.

I’ve let something go, and am happier for it. I’ve become a red balloon rising, escaping — not fleeing, ascending — and I win. I don’t take this sordid prize. I win by being honest and possessing integrity, by moving on with my name still intact.

This goldfish is one of those things that will never tarnish in my mind. He remains fixed there — luminous, and unreachable, and so beautiful. Many things are this way in my life.

This is what makes it so bewildering to encounter in people who present as feeling, thinking, and/or complex. The capacity exists. The choice not to use it was made anyway. That gap between what someone is capable of and what they choose is where character actually lives. Or doesn’t.