#DavidFosterWallaceismycopilot

The kind of late middle-aged guy (obviously a tough life but in recovery, so what? an old 40? a rescued 60?) who sits with his shoulders hunched forward, hands in windbreaker pockets staring at a spot between the floor and hell, no ornamentation and no distraction, no need for headphones or Angry Birds, watching endless loops of the only newsreel showing in his soul cinema “Regrets,” headlines spinning out to freeze in endless moments of recognition and re-ownership (“Self horrified at own behavior,” “Self bottoms out,” “Self accepts God as his savior,” “Self rides el with weird guy who keeps looking at him then typing something on his computer,” “Self pretty sure guy typing about him”), his thin gray hair gelled back seeming propelled behind at the speed of his thought.