Seven years ago, C. and I debated how the world would end.
A rant in this Terrible Year of 2023 when algorithms are chewing through the scenery.
Limbering up to flee an algorithmic hallucination while finding solace in a French future from ’82.
The desert is littered with bizarre facts, and I often think I invented them, like a fragment from a dream or a misremembered film.
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.
Hopefully there won’t be too many outages on this station while I untangle my nameservers.
Above a shuttered rest area, a billboard announced “Jesus Christ is the Answer! Call Dan’s Windows & Flooring!”
This morning I fed a robot a few sentences from the novel I’m writing, and it generated some startlingly accurate pictures.
Can anyone recommend a solid alternative to Apple Music that will sync my mp3s with my desktop and telephone?
I think I’ve managed to switch on the comments in case anyone wants to say hello or recommend a movie or a song.
It was nice to believe in the future for a little while.
Clear skies with highs in the mid-thirties, and it finally snowed last night.
Another frigid and atmospherically pointless day without any snow. My brand new cassette tape arrived.
The grey skies of January continue, the moon is in its first quarter, and I bought a tiny telephone.
Writing about online living feels tacky for some reason, even though it might be the only thing we have left in common.
While I wasn’t paying attention, my life became gamified into metrics and streaks.
These blurry days between Christmas and New Year’s Eve stand outside of time.
Sunset: 6:32pm. Moon: Waning crescent. A damp Monday with dull grey air and internet outages.
As I write this, a hurricane is approaching the eastern seaboard, which captures the general mood for the past eighteen months: the waiting-and-seeing.
