Felt-tip fealty
Stolen obscenities
Mistake a meme for a movement
Relace the seam with dissolvable stitches
Rebuild atop a crumbling foundation
Division as salvation
Rebrand sickness as entertainment
Zero sum inversion
Decaying recursion
Garbage in, garbage out
Beat that drum
Run back to what you knew
For four long years you’ve wanted to
I’ll choke down all that might have been
And spit out what you’re accustomed to

And, since this is a harmful pattern with nobody at fault… we have landed here for the time being

What the world likes to Einstellung as a manic episode, I’d label a three week period, sans depression, of blazing creativity only born with enough fuel to sustain itself for twenty-one days in isolation. I do appreciate the world for helping me clarify what this three-week cycle I have lived with for decades ended up being. It is precisely how long I can maintain my own enthusiasm without sharing it.

The shape of yesterday

I suppose DNA is algorithmic.

A chipped shoulder always muddles a message, only to what degree will vary.

Show me with one pixel which way the water moves.

So, yes, a river can stand still.

Everything is always both moving and not moving; it depends upon where you’re making your observation.

Breathe deep enough to make the cat think you’re getting up.

When the waves you ride are surfless.

Perhaps meditation is tolerating life all at once.

I’m not sure I should have a phone.

The second most frequently heard voice for me is the contractor building the house on the other side of our fence.

For two years I’ve woken up, watched Today in the Bay, and then wondered, “what, now?”

I wonder if the quantum interferes with a theoretical attempt to map a snapshot of a person’s electrical grid and start reading minds. I suppose language games might interfere before then.

We settle for social media when we could build social community.

I suppose we’ll manage to connect online when I figure a way to look you in the eyes.

Perhaps my sense of humor comes from all the humoring I’ve had to do.

When you write in a style that purposefully makes itself difficult to understand, illustrate it, and sit on the verbose connective tissue, it’s the folks come up and ask what I’m sitting on that got to meet me. I don’t remember the last person to ask.

Two years into ☾𐂂’s post-art era, at least his vocabulary has expanded.

Perhaps I oughta try responding with five paragraph essays.

I wonder if sharing will always feel like a mistake.

When you wake up sad for the first time in three weeks.

I will no longer be reading this blog aloud to anyone I am paying to listen to me.

I suppose I will actually have to shut this f$&ker down to force myself over to the journal.