November 2022

The Pacific Time Zone is turning me into a morning person, and I do not like it.

There’s something so tranquil about an illuminated palm tree. It’s a science-fictional kind of calm.

Warm Leatherette on repeat as we drive into Vegas.

Heavy art followed by a fingernail moon over the Rockies as we crossed the Continental Divide.

A lone tree becomes exciting. A sign for the National Agro-Defense Facility fires the imagination.

At Cracker Barrel, C. and I discussed Tristan Tzara, Model 500, Basic Channel, and vaporwave over Grandpa’s Country Fried Breakfast.

Making an oldies playlist like it’s 1995 and I’m smoking clove cigarettes while speeding down I-75 to the Packard Plant or Saint Andrew’s Hall.

Overpass graffiti, institutional fuckery, and a solid Joy Division cover.

The strike against nefariousness continues. Mastodon feels wholesome. Veronica Vasicka delivers another top-shelf playlist.

Cold running. Twitter might be dying. The Menu was an okay movie. Digital ghosts.

Five days until we drive into the desert. Illinois and Indiana look like fangs. I should go to bed.

Repetition on a grey November day.