The smell of fried chicken brought tears to his eyes as he stumbled down the street that morning and reminded him just how far he had wandered from home.

The poet sought heartbreak since she was always in need of inspiration.

The surgery that made it possible for him to walk changed how he saw himself, leading to a slow slide into an intense depression.

High above the Hudson, swinging erratically in the wind, he worked the key around from the back of his mouth to between his teeth as the crowd far below waited with baited breath.

Tom O'Bryan was a planner, so much so that he had already picked out the final words he would say upon his deathbed—"Whiskey for my friends, water for my horses"—a phrase he felt would nicely sum up his life's philosophy.

Their casual banter soon turned towards politics, religion and personal hygiene, all subjects they had profoundly different takes on.

After moving into his new apartment, no matter what Driscoll set out to paint the image of a figure with hollow black spaces for eyes continued to emerge from within the swirls of paint.