I’m sitting in the coffee shop listening to A Flock of Seagulls and seeing the anonymous people swarm in and around me in weird light, like characters in a fast-motion short where the lights are flickering and you know it’ll all be over in a moment.
Back when overcoats and boots were edgy and fantastic, not trite, overdetermined, and ironic.
I miss every bit of innocence I’ve — we’ve — lost.
I ran.
Sometime over the weekend, I was pushed out of google… or so I thought. But now I appear to be back. I wonder how that happened? Maybe things are happening that I don’t understand.
—
I’m stressed. Not just about work, but about life, bills, plans, living arrangements, health, age, relationships, deadlines, and a hundred other things.
But I suppose there’s not much to do but work through it.
Time to work.
§ As you get older, the ghosts become more real than anything else.
§ Under the leaves, soil. Under the soil, stone. Under the stone, souls.
§ Radically empowering individuals in society may be the worst mistake we ever made.
§ Want to be a radical? Refuse to suffer. Then, wait for the assault.
§ Goodbye 2017, part two. (The real part.)
§ Sometimes you find home where you’ve never been—and you dwell where you aren’t.
§ The self can’t play Atlas for postmodernity because science is now supernatural.
§ Rehab is universal. So is history.
§ Identity, transcendence, and tactics.
§ Untitled. (a.k.a. Pretty faces, new old photos.)