While puttering in the kitchen, I heard the television say that voters in Wisconsin and Pennsylvania hold an unprecedented amount of power in human history because of the garbled logic of the electoral college. “They hold the fate of the world in their hands,” said the television while I fried an egg. These are hyperbolic days. It’s an uneasy sensation, knowing something massively historical is one week away. Hackers briefly seized the president’s website, issuing a bizarre message in broken English before demanding cryptocurrency. Another hurricane is pointed at the Louisiana coast, which is unusual this late in the year.

Meanwhile, pandemic-themed advertisements for banks followed me around the city while I ran errands. They thanked me for wearing a mask and reminded me we’re all in this together. They told me it’s a great time to set up an appointment with a financial adviser. Restaurants are dragging heat lamps into the street, and for some reason, the sight of them made me want to start smoking again. I miss the ritual and unique solitude of a cigarette, a reason to step into the night chill for five minutes and stare into the middle-distance.

Rhythm & Sound – History Version

The Versions | Burial Mix, 2003 | More
Each night in 2020, I wrote a short post for a series called Notes From the End of a World because I wanted to etch these days into my memory. Before the world changed completely.
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January 30, 2020


These are destabilizing days when there always seems to be a screen playing something upsetting in the room.
April 27, 2022


I think I've managed to switch on the comments in case anyone wants to say hello or recommend a movie or a song.
July 14, 2020


There’s a strange dynamic to this nightly journal, this sensation of writing against time. Or more precisely: writing for myself in the future.
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