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.
It’s nice to have a new place on the map to romanticize. And William Gibson has nothing on the Catholics.
Good news: Wolf’s Kompaktkiste is still around. Bad news: I’m on strike.
Maybe one day we’ll reach a point when all possible frequencies have been recorded, every combination of words written.
Hopefully there won’t be too many outages on this station while I untangle my nameservers.
For weeks I’ve been grinding through histories of medieval Europe in search of a point of inspiration.
