the devil's ass-crack

i could do what's in front of me - but i have the feeling it wouldn't do any good - i could delay though - and that's what i'm doing - cause i'm not exactly jonesing - and doing what's in front of me, well, it's not all bad - it's not half bad even - maybe i'll do half of what's in front of me - or some fraction, anyway - dishes and laundry, at least - and plants need watering - it's not nearly enough to provide focus, direction, let alone purpose (forget purpose, distraction would suffice), but it's something

i don't make a good goody goody or hero though, i've found - i make a better anti-hero - not that i make a great anti-hero either, just marginally better than the former - i'd probably make a good paranoid android though, yeah

a token effort at being less self-absorbed by reaching out to the world and focusing on the external, is not just a token effort - but it still smacks of one - which makes one wonder, why bother? but i'm sure i'll keep trying, cause it's fundamentally for myself, anyway, to assuage guilt, to be able to say to myself, i at least tried to do something selfless today - i find, though, morality gets boring quickly, and to be boring is the ultimate sin, the deadliest - makes everything feel like death - i suspect it could have quite a lot to do with serotonin

serotonin is a beautiful word - a lot of chemical names are, especially the molecules of organic chemistry, and even better, bio-chemistry - and botany - they sound like music, and saying and typing the names with their correct spellings, hopefully, is like playing an etude de virtuosite

fuck, again

i have to meander far enough to bury a block of text in the woods... and that may take a while... insane, the games i play, with words, and posting, and the internet, and social networks - but so what? words are all i got sometimes, and it's slightly more satisfying if they are online, even on the underside, in the curl of the cable that's simply seen as a telephone line from a thousand yards away, barely one dimension

can I sever better? that is the question. sever the ties that keep me bound and wound too tight, and worrying about stuff like shirt collars and grooming for chrissakes... it's so weird that i don't even fit with hippies - how's that for a misfit shitfit? there are times when it seems i must grasp ahold of anything, anything but this! fucking fucking fucking fucking fuck. I'm looking at my competition across the room from me. the guy in the nike cap at the little table talking to the lady with the sour newfie voice, irish gone rancid - hoop earrings the size of bicycle wheels. I wonder if they'll tell me about all the other resumes they got. Can I swap my pheromones with a co-applicant? might as well trade a dixie cup of urine for the drug test while we're at it - not that I need clean piss, but I need untainted pheromones that don't unconsciously project an off-putting paranoid neurosis, a just-barely sub-clinical case of schizophrenia.

wow. that went terrible. i feel terrible. praying doesn't help. you'd think it would, wouldn't you? cause it's the right thing to do, it's spiritual, you're getting into the spirit of things when you pray. but it doesn't seem to change anything, even my attitude - i'm not saying it can't work, i'm saying i'm too stubborn for it to work on me - yeah, i'm not willing, or whatever - i've nailed that down, at least - i'm sick of this struggle to believe things - i don't believe in god. i don't believe in luck. nothing is very real to me except this predictable bullshit - this predictably disgusting, in-public SHIT! shit is such a perfectly crude word to describe what i've been doing on a day to day basis for a while now - i'm not going to fill out another form - i'm not going to create another character - i've wasted enough time - i've had enough hopes dashed

i'm getting closer and closer to opting out - and don't anyone co-opt my opt out - let me have one to myself - or actually, maybe do co-opt it, if you want, i could use some company, on the outside - funny when people think they can tell me to accept this or that or not - there's a line i'd edit out, except i don't care to on this occasion - don't care to do much editing

dying inside makes me want to die on the outside - maybe i could finally find a use for rum - "officially dying" sounds kind of fun, do i get a certificate? maybe a hand tattoo - what a shitty string of days - and it's not even that shitty - why does it get to me so much then? because i have so little strength in me - never had much, and there's almost none left of what was there in the first place - i gotta say something about confidence, how it's fuckin dust these days - i think i suck - whatever it is i'm good at, it's not much use to anybody... when did money get so important to me? fuck, that's sad, that it did, i'm conflating my worth with how market capitalism values things - but somehow, that feels like the only real thing anymore - and i can't stop comparing myself negatively to everyone around me - everyone seems to know more, do more, cope better than me, and even the ones that fuck up and flip out, well, they have better reason to, an all-around superior style - i think i might just be ranked last, it's seeming plausible - congratulations, everybody else, you try harder, you're more willing - i'm not, i had to draw the line somewhere

i'm open to alternatives - alternative lifestyles - theft - i should have thought this through years ago, i'm too old to become a punk just now - then i got just a little too comfortable for too long, and now i have to make decisions that are so much the harder in the cold light of day - but i might have to make them anyway, throw away a lot of comforts, for a peace of mind that might be serene enough to make up for lack of comforts i've gotten used to, and come to believe that i needed - there's something really sickly depressing about the need to believe something, what that says about things... that the reality is so hideous, you can peak at it from inside a comfortable narcotized bubble, but eventually, when that bubble bursts, the clear light of reality will quickly drive you to grasp at something, NEED to BELIEVE in something

camus thought there was a reason to live... i presume... vidal thought his life was "enough"... lucky fuck, easy to say, when you've lived a rich full life like that, published acclaimed books, grown up with privilege and access, hobnobbed with the rich and powerful, literary giants, movie stars - how easy then to equate death with the sleep of the just or something - what if your life was sad, short, and full of child-abuse and leukemia? and you died at, let's say, 15, so i don't get arguments along the lines of that, like, you're not really a fully conscious human being before a certain age - does vidal think, in that case, you had 15 years to contrive some kind of a full life, and if you didn't, then you wasted it yourself, so, fuck you if it wasn't enough for you? i'll have to take what i can get out of life, i guess, i'll possibly admit that, as much as i can in weasel words, but also, i'm not a forceful taker, you know? not a convincing faker... a maker? i'd like to be... i'd like to be one of those type who makes things, that are useful to other people, that aren't art projects for my own personal taste, that only i enjoy reading back and looking at and listening to

does anyone want to hire me to do anything? like clean things? if so, i'll take the first offer, i'll work for minimum wage, if that'll sweeten the deal - but i will NOT fill out another form and sit through another interview and grimace my way through another performance, and be waiting and waiting for the phone to ring, for a miraculous message that a job i went through the motions for has, in fact, been made available to me

i'm accepting offers... not maybes - no more maybes - i'm looking for a simple trade, manual labour in exchange for money with which to buy goods and services - why is this so complicated?

complicated lies, society is so full of complicated lies, and i've barely begun deciphering them - i'm slow on the uptake, a late-bloomer, all those terms that make me want to puke - i wish i was funny like a stand up comic - i was i was more compassionate - i respect compassion, at least, i appreciate it - i even have a bit of my own amateur version of it - it's probably keeping me here on this earth, for another cycle - i'm sure they'll be a lot of those, for fuck's sakes, again

the drunken goat poem

what am i doing? being twitchy for one thing - that's one thing i do well - and pining for vibisol - it'll solve everything! it numbs unwanted vibes for oversensitive sots - i mean those kinda sots that are really just folks, ordinary folks you could have a beer with, given a missing chromosome, driven to sousery and doomed to fail job interviews for eternity by a genetic predisposition to the unwanted unasked-for build-up of vibes to the point where a crippling social anxiety is reached - in the medical lexicon they call it a disorder, but it's actually a hyper-order... of bullshit - those poor sots, and their hyper-absorption of energy, and its prompt decay into paranoid radiation - it becomes a background radiation, so commonplace it's not recognized as "paranoid" at the epicenter, not the kind of paranoia you can trace back to saber-toothed tiger attacks, but just the vaguely off-putting brainwave frequency stack that must be the best of all possible worlds - energy can be a wonderful thing, like blood meandering in a low-pressure situation through vessels like the good ship cholesterol, a river journey with the sails down and the current spoiling the sailing skills of the crew, but when the blood leaks into parts of the brain that it's not supposed to be in, the life-giver can taketh away real quick

strokes are real, i can almost feel them, and they're starting to interest me a great deal, i could imagine a clot in the hypocampus, buried in an avalanche of synthetic morphine, a static thought bubble

arthur silber, the chronically poor, sick, blogger is valiantly writing through his misery again - he's even got the balls to ask for donations - i'm not actually being sarcastic and criticizing a blogger for doing that this time - i mean it, he's speaking to an audience through the medium of literate despair - i respect that - i can and will do all that, except for the reaching out part - got nothing against begging, it's noble, when you're contemplating a life of crime, when the desperation of being broke is making stealing not seem so wrong, i mean, don't just about fucking all of us steal in various sorts of ways anyway? so, raskolnikov, the little scamp, starts looking like a princely pauper even though we know he was set up to fall, or that's what we figure, being only a couple hundred pages into crime and punishment - and this is just pre-desperation, it's hardly anything yet - yet - okay universe, i give you the go, mock my petty paranoia by giving me just enough work to keep me in food, sans familial charity - anytime you're ready, grant me another episode in this series of corny tv situation comedies, the premise in each being that i'm "solvent", haha, a grown man, yeah, independent, making a living, of sorts - i'll take that to the food bank, i will, i'll cross that line

vibisol is the new penicillin, we need a new penicillin, it's no longer the panacea, material is anathema, it's oxidizing my every action up and down the periodic table, i can feel it in methyl groups - there's an epidemic of brain parasites, i heard, and what do you expect when our brains are getting good and plump - a fat lot of good it does us, overripe and rotting on the vine

what vibisol does is it takes all these vibes that a case study like me thinks he's feeling and, through noise canceling technology, neutralizes them - the only byproduct is a harmless photon emission - what vibisol could do is almost incalculable - i'd try and calculate it anyway, if i could rally the strength to attempt a sci-fi premise that even sort-of sounded like it had any basis in plausible hypothesis, or perthesis, i could use all of the above as a prosthesis affixed to a rubber ball, and pogo conveniently out of a carefully improvised trap my narc neighbor laid on me last night in my dreams

that being said, vibisol does hint at the possibility of an infinitesimal speck on an infinitesimal speck being a literary rabbit hole that sounds like a cut up but isn't, and is, in fact, a trap that novel writers get into, of thinking of life as a HIGH STAKES GAME that they made up, with a lil' help from camus - to get serious for a sec here, if i'm going to ascribe some ring of truth to statements people make about what the character of the universe is, how it prefers joy, or it prefers duality, or it doesn't care so you better enjoy what you got while you got it, even if it sucks, i'd err on the side of the scientists, not the novel writers - the novel writers are always so dour and gloomy, i find, and they think life is so literary, and profound, and philosophical - the scientists, on the other hand, they got beyond philosophy - science used to be called philosophy, but it evolved into a more sophisticated thing, where the word profound becomes profoundly meaningless... there are greater truths in science, like, for instance, at the moment, it seems as if the phenomenon of mass can be linked to a subatomic particle called the higgs boson... and other stuff like that - even though this stuff needs constant revision and refinement, i find it to be truer than anything philosophers and writers have managed - the pit of shallow wit is practically an exhumed grave at this point

in scientists i hear something closer to religion and reverence than anyone else, an awe of the weirdness and wildness of how the universe actually appears to work, when you split atoms and measure background radiation and stress test and model, regardless of whether this character may suggest benevolence or malevolence... it tends to be the literary types who suggest the universe is so cold, so terribly cold and empty - scientists tell me there's more energy in a thimbleful of vacuum than a stick of dynamite - there's also thermodynamics, which is a downer this year, or is it? but the sense it makes isn't so tyrannical that i might as well walk out naked into the tundra with no intention of coming back - where's all that mutability i'm supposed to see in reality, i'm wondering... can i coax it, cause i would if i could... ?

what am i doing right now, but typing in this technological reality... i'm so glad i have no urge to quote jacques derrida - i'm also glad there are people who stay in school, so they can quote derrida, so i don't have to, and never will, NEVER! i haven't been deputized to do that, if there's one thing in this life that i'm sure of, it's that - now, if only i can figure out what i HAVE been deputized to do - surely it's not writing this, this is practically analogous to walking the wheel in the turkish looney bin, left is communist, right is whatever the bright center of the universe is in that cosmology, allah is south by southwest and jesus's in utah with the latter day saints - maybe i gotta come back to the catholic church and get re-baptized and then eat the body of christ and get beyond the symbolism and have a religious experience of the kind the gaming consoles blocked by feeble emulation, then get confirmed, and then become a deputy for the pinkerton army

but i wandered in the rain, so far from my starting point, and left my vibisol parasol, and i'm all wet with vibes that i can't explain in significant figures or metaphor, and i'm smelling of mildew, a running on cog off the job, coding on meth, beautiful code that does nothing except sweep the odd numbered kitchen tiles on wednesday and bleach the even numbered bathroom tiles on thursday - there's interlocking permutations and many substances besides bleach which figure in to a pedestrian decimal place, just two or three, conceivable by the common person - there has to be a purpose in all this molecular profusion - things don't just happen, i can't wish that away, that things could just happen, and why would i wish that away anyway? what i wish for would destroy me, surely

and by "purpose", i don't necessarily mean something literary - maybe i just mean causality - even as the desire for chaos, confusion, and sense erosion is so strong in me - but i'm tempered and tethered to persistent architecture that's not exactly built on sand, there's just a lot of sand on the bedrock, and the bedrock may be on a fault line, but the big one is not reality, it's tomorrow that never comes, tra-la-la-la-la... the garden party just doesn't feel the same anymore now that it's weird to get high, and not weird in a fun way - it's not so fun walking to school and back both ways uphill, it's not like you kids today and your club drugs - it's so surreal that there are people who are, at this very moment, having their first beer ever, unfamiliar with the whole trajectory that's waiting, that i would have inked on me if i was into tattoo autobiography - my friends have drifted apart, to the four corners of the continent, and we're all getting older, and are y'all looking back as much as i am? i hope i'm not the only one with this nostalgia twitch, tho i know it's so unseemly

maybe i'll sleep innnnnnnn, til i get eaten by my dreams in the fuzzy shades of day

bedblog

blogging in bed with my thumbs. haven't done this in forever. or ever. the tosh died, whatever death is... the tosh is in limbo, a machine without a spark, like bishop, who would rather be nothing. I won't be spry enough to even think about stealing meds from the care facility when I'm old enough to be a resident. this arbitrary auto caps is idiotic.

a decent crop of dreams later... actually, it was more than decent, it was fan-tasty! music composing and performing dreams, a signed to a record label dream, a tears-of-joy dream, which was the only teary dream i've ever had, and they were joyful tears, how weird is that? and building a tower on top of the roof of my friend's house in nelson... oh, and my spin on the ecstatic "exoskeletal" chorus from that cedric song, haha! what a righteous dream fragment, so weirdly sacred... now what am i doing? back to this, finishing a draft - burying things on blankets under blankets, curdled fever dreams, bunches in sweaty crumples, jaws on mandibles, oh heck, oh fudge, the dream was a nice opener at least, to this morning of multiplying virii - happens every time i quit smoking, i've made my throat and lungs hospitable again, and the germs start throwing parties in me

work don't work - school's a waste of time - i'm not gonna say the grass is greener on the other side either - i think i should get into selling drugs, HATE-FUCK THE WORLD! cut to the chase - i think i missed my chance to do that though, but i'm still keeping a lazy eye half-open for opportunity - still looking at the ground, for "ground scores"! my eyes are drawn to the dirt and the concrete and the ample detritus of that plane - as if that little crumple of plastic has something psychotropic in there, when has that ever happened? in dreams, yes, in shamble dreams, but rarely even in them! but sometimes, and though it never happened in reality, the dreams still draw my eyes to the ground

just offer me a fuckin job, okay? and i'll forget the whole me-against-the-universe thing, i promise... i'll never ever quit again, i'll hold onto whatever position i can get a labour contract for, for dear life, for the rest of my life, cause i never want to have to look again, it's never seemed to drag my sense of self-worth through the gravel like it's doing this time

how do people do these things? these getting through life things? i guess they must be strange and different people that i can't contemplate - my parents are wonderful people, they seem to fit in their own little niche, but their genetic combination is giving me maths problems, the equations produce infinities, they seem insoluble, they crop up more and more, they don't go away with a little medication here, a little 12 steps there - therapy, the sick joke of therapy, the self-delusion of spirituality... this is something i haven't been able to articulate, but i long to just dismiss this shit i'm struggling to believe - it's tiring to try and believe all the time - the most honest thing i can say is, i'm fucking confused, i have no idea what's true and what's purpose - meaninglessness is the trend, nothing coheres

hoopla

please weed me from your auxiliary workforce - i don't like the feeling of potential energy that could make me your electron, like you're their electron you poor automaton - people like you actually exist on this level that's been super-atomic since before we were single cells? there are actual sam walton quotes on blue backdrops in training rooms? like just maybe one of us peasants is gonna be the corporate diamond in the rough, discovered on stavanger drive?

after the first hour of that eight applicant group interview, i wanted to barf out of my tear ducts - i lasted til the end, maybe that counts for something, but so did everyone else - so i performed the service of the surplus, to make neighbors look better, almost presentable, so this regional outlet could say they didn't hire the defective fraction - there needed to be a defective fraction so they could say that, when the crop is tainted, some share will have to pass for cream, they can write on a form that they raked up the pliable ones they can train to do whatever - ouch, that stung, it was the only point of pride i had going in, that my character will show in the work i do, not realizing what they're looking for is lego bricks with pliable plastic pegs

sure, none of us was happy to be in that circus ring, but guess who retained the status of most reserved thespian in the role playing for selling products games? no i wasn't having "fun"!? and no, i wasn't the tenth time you asked either, but i tried not to seem negative - i wonder how well that worked, me being such a great actor and all? what agony, i'd rather starve than go through it again - character profiles, hmmm... that's when i knew i was fucked, wasting wasting wasting my time, dumping it by the mound on already piled mounds in vast wastelands of time, and how about some more temporal refuse for good measure? sure, pile it on, marone!

i had to think, i'm being this much of a circus animal for the mere possibility of that low a wage? cause they say it with a straight face, talking without shame in increments of forty cents like it's the seventies or something and what could an hour of your time possibly be worth? time is cheap but it's money anyway i'd bet they say, 24 hours a day, and given what a kick the human cattle drivers get out of their jobs, time must be bargain rate for them too, they've taken the lesson - well, there's employee discounts, maybe they'll take a loss on toilet paper for the lucky few that make the cut - "control your costs better than that of your competition", says sam walton, they wouldn't let a font of wisdom like that go unattributed, not in the training room - and what is with the yellow asterisks? blue hoopla from on high, the billionaire owners and their hoops - i held on though, once i got one of the managers to nail down the situation that it wasn't entirely a case of eight people being set in competition with each other, there was more than one position being filled... that's what she said, i just had to know it was slightly better than a roulette wheel before i kept jumping for the rest of the rounds - among some meander on policies i caught a scrap about dress code prohibiting bare midriffs, and was disappointed

oh so queasy walking back, like i'd already run a marathon - i'd dug my nails into knuckles leaving gouges - the worst part is how i know now it's just how things work, couldn't be any other way, given the state of me being maladjusted like i am - i know my character isn't great - can't channel skills and energy and soul in these conventional ways - and i also know how self-pity figures into it - that's not nice knowledge, even that consolation spoiled by self-awareness - well, not entirely spoiled, there's still writing, a sacred outcrop haven from shame, some place to be proud and howl, a ledge below the edge

spin cycles come out in the wash though, a certain layer of sickness could be rinsed off for a while, in a while

the vagueness monster

there was a way to walk and talk by catapult from tent village to stumbling grounds, from mist to bogfog, and it sprung from the pretty cloistered funk of a guy we were hanging out with, who said, yeah, the k gets you walking, cause it's so sproingy to be walking when you're in that way, and the c gets you talking, so when you're in this bank of fog, and you wanna bank to another bank that's maybe got a river snaking by its bed, and you wanna see your kinesthesia, and talk about it too, with people that're barely there (but you know them better than you thought you thought a second ago) at cosmic family reunions in corners of pockets, and view it all from a dispassionate vantage in the absence of the sensation of gravity, well then, you take a rucksack with you that's a mixture of two powders for a walktalk, or a talkwalk, a c&k combo, a walkytalky!

it was hilarious - a lingual collision of providence and portent that could not be untangled thereafter, but we all sort of glowed together for an instant like an idea bulb in a cartoon... yeah! he said, as it turned out, that happened at that shambles - that's where it was invented that time... you didn't just think of it now, it emerged from that fog, and almost as soon, sank in the bog... until now! until now, when one of us hit upon the walkytalky communication method across gulfs that shouldn't be gulfs by all reason, i mean, you're sitting across the room from me! but it's also like there's a chasm between our two familial units that splits the rug into a positive and negative universe, both being null-space, and me being okay with that, as long as i keep falling in this direction, or rather, any direction with a similar rate of spin, and/or "search for similar" as soulseek lets you do, and miraculously relay with electromagnetic people who are like family after so little! you think you were the only one who hit upon that idea, of the walkytalky? nah, remember, there's this non-local, non-linear causality where things you're gonna do are influencing the past, and it gets even fuzzier than that at certain vertices in this connect the dot drawing of telepathy tags

sorry, i should say, at one scale it looks like fuzz, at another a ripple, and there's no solid state ever, so, already, you're relying on theoretical dimensions for gauging anything - all i can do is type this type of thing, to even try and do justice to memories that are calling over baud connections, susceptible to future sun flares and skimming the misty surface

he said something about me lacking people skills, but never sleeping pills, at what prompting, i have no clue, while snorfling up the rails i'd graciously laid out for him - that was after he showed up at our house at 3 am looking for a party, cause he thought he could count on his brother, ol' faithfully fucked up - but this time brother was asleep, actually asleep, at night, to get up early for work - but me and luc weren't, so i didn't take the people comment personally, and i didn't let it ruin anything, or anything like that, or everything was in ruins anyway, and there was so much to be done among them

those were the days when we would watch videos in a little box screen in a hole in the world's margins, redundant videos given that we happened to be in a music video most of the time anyway, so videos within videos - and along with this guy was another little guy from the civic - it was the impossible, improbable, implausible creek street solid state of existence - i have the feeling it still could exist, if i'd let it, if i didn't let so much blood

i still have the capacity to sooth people in my pocket, when suddenly i'm deputized to describe why existence isn't such a conundrum - and i'm full of fear like you, and i get pretty black at times, and it's only the rarest of times that i can see that black as beautiful - but with you, and a solid state, and hi-gain, so high it anesthetizes me through audiophonic overkill and the consequent levitation, i can see how warm the absence is, how it pops up in the presence of this treble register waveform over there in a dream variant of the back to the future part ii plot - yeah, we were both born once upon a time, don't you think? you may not remember, but you can backtrack from this current cortex, can't you? so why not again? maybe we'll meet again, we'll have to de-learn one language, re-learn another, and all sorts of plural processes that add up to wishful thinking that is coincidentally true when you measure the velocity.

resisting resistance - keeping the mind open - to a hedge maze of bets - a labyrinth of betters - better rats make me look bad - better traps make me look placid - make them look cagey - hedge mazey, hey

keeping the mind opulent and commodious minus myself... for the birds - philosophical lollipop hypnospins - even delirium drained of power, weak and lucid, meek hallucinations

taunting reverb, but i think i'll read a book about king lear from the fool's perspective, and partially remedy this choleric swoon in a hedge rut

"it takes the weight out of living", he said, does it? ah, how bout that? i murmer, from way over here, remarking on the thing i raved about last decade and ranted about last year - i can still hear the thing they sing about, living on as tension in a head temple, today it's more the right one

and, this'll have to be cut off

planting

words, growing underground, under eyelids, spreading roots in a micro-ecology of minds

waking up to a little ripple in the groundwater, just a little, that keeps me going

i miss my woman - moments of sensitivity are dismembering me just lately, beyond raw nerves, emotional sinkholes - but i know my way a little, just a little better around this obstacle course this time around - i know there's a checkered flag somewhere in the circuit

WEARY GO ROUND

Pursue music to the gates of heaven. Avoid the other place. Lacquer the handrails and apply pine tar. A swoon to okay anesthesia, a kind that might be allowed in the future. Still hospice envy. Johnny seeding powder, ceding power, but allowed to write. Fingersnapping utopias. The Performing Abortionists, getting rolling, recording, a trial-and-error process, editing, making a product with purpose and polish, to have.

The future is weird, it makes my joints weak, but not as weak as they were last week. The future takes with one hand and gives with the other. Smell and consciousness in fingernails after death. It's not all for nothing, just mostly for nothing. But it's that lil’ bit that means everything, or mainly feels like everything, like enough, like burnt almonds when you've burned out and there's nothing more to say. There was nothing more to say last week, but we got through another interval, where we're saying things again, sweet nothings. There's still more things to click, parts in the ass-end of inventories that didn't make any sense, that didn't fit with any other parts, but it seems there's little surprises, of random clicks and pops, that are the good kind of clicks and pops, even in a post-rock glitch-hop trajectory. If that's where this road leads, let's take it.

Or what are you doing there, are you forging an off-ramp, a path into the woods? Okay, I'll come along and check it out, humour you, try not to make fun, try not to be paranoid that you're making fun of me. The fun can pretty easily drain out of things if you think about them too much. Remember when math was fun? Remember when numbers were munchable? We used to treat numbers like munchkins and coded colour-kins, and mile long pianos in vast dark auditoriums, and aloof nothing-somethings. I'll come along and admire this attempt at a path, and sleep under the canopy, and remember when I felt closer to sacredity, and be the worst camper you ever met, which I still think is an exaggeration, but I'll allow for the possibility that the microfibers are creeping into me subtly, entwining with sinews, and I'm becoming cancer's symbiot.

There's still many possibilities in un-mined melodies that are archived by this lover of information, even as that double-bladed knife leaves me bleeding. Then there's kitchen knives, which I could love on another path. Could get into the preparation of food. But no, never, the culinary four stars aren't my rock stars, it makes me sick, that system, I breathe more naturally in other, equally toxic systems of glut and glamour.

I like how Windows, even Windows XP, remembers what order you left each individual subdirectory in, with the columns, column lengths, and sortings, so each one can be customized on the fly in an evolving system of progressively tighter aesthetic order.