Maybe my father, and the thousands of people who have bonded over their self-perceived status as targeted individuals, are a kind of indirect warning system experiencing a kind of collective dream—canaries in the digital coal mine.
For Gauguin, he had the moral luck to be an excellent painter, so everyone forgives him. They say, “How wonderful that he did what he needed to do to make this extraordinary art.” What if he had been a terrible painter?
I walked down the aisle and browsed through the books I imagined Bowie might’ve touched. Of course, I looked over every time one of the doors opened, but that day Bowie never stepped inside McNally Jackson.