where angels beg fr doom/springtimes left in every soul

wanting to stay alive is a kind of cult

proffer: you don’t longboard going the wrong direction in my bike lane, i will otherwise not inhibit your regression to the opposite of human dignity


i bitch about the city that i live in a lot, but it is sunny outside and i rode my bike over a river on a bridge and took in assembled glories of man. then i walked through a janky street fair where one of the vendors was just verizon wireless, because buying a cellphone at a street fair is in any way different from doing it in a carpeted soulless store (there’s a semi-permanent one right over there f.y.r.).  i feel like i got to the end of the rainbow and helped myself to pocketsful of metaphysical gold but then kept going into secret shitty extra levels.

people playing a tiny digital simulacra of a card game invented to annihilate the trackless boring stretches of the 19th century, except their flickering candlelight drawing room is a phone more clever than entire millennia. big old game of jenga. OTOH: it’s cool, my hobby is being a dick.