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.
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.
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.
Hopefully there won’t be too many outages on this station while I untangle my nameservers.
The pulse of distant highway traffic in the rain is the most soothing sound I know.
C. and I are trying to determine our best route to Vegas.
I’d like to live in a world of apologetic gods and talking satellites.
I’ve decided to embrace the upside of insomnia.
Above a shuttered rest area, a billboard announced “Jesus Christ is the Answer! Call Dan’s Windows & Flooring!”
I keep this one in my wallet.
Ohio. Sunset: 7:01pm. When I stepped outside this morning, I saw my breath—the first frost of the season.
It’s the first of October, and I give praise for proper autumn at last. Deeper nights. Sharper weather. There’s room in the air to think.
Berenice Abbott’s portrait of a magnetic field reminds me of fireworks beneath the eyelids.
