Unlike the blank winter grays of the Midwest and East Coast, the clouds over Vegas are well-defined, painterly, and startlingly low.
Ohio. Sunset: 8:36pm. I sneeze whenever I glance at the sun, which I’ve always taken as proof I am a night owl.
You can never see further than your headlights: this old slice of trucker philosophy makes more sense to me with each passing year.
My map is upside down, inscrutable, and probably for a different planet.
There’s a waxing crescent moon, and I’m reading about God.
One of those fine afternoons when you wander into a dusty bookstore in an unfamiliar city.
London. Another day of clouds and drizzle, and somewhere off to the left, I can hear Georges Perec: “Question your teaspoons.”
Blank skies, single-digit temperatures, and the sun goes down at 5:38pm. Here in the Middle West, I’m filling the quiet with books and music, absorbed by text and sound in ways I haven’t felt in years
While I wasn’t paying attention, my life became gamified into metrics and streaks.
Four days left in New York City. Last night I finished Jonathan Franzen’s Crossroads, and even as I turned the final page, I was amazed I was reading it at all.
“When you do something, you should burn yourself completely, like a good bonfire, leaving no trace of yourself.”
I’m attempting to read Gustav Flaubert’s The Temptation of Saint Anthony.
The Stand brought me back to teenage nights of staying awake into the small hours with a flashlight, promising myself just one more chapter.
Thinking about the blurry line between media consumption and my soul.
Maybe we’ll have a vaccine soon. Maybe the president will poison himself. Things can go either way these days.
