Come collogue, my friend. Now is the only thing that’s real. Who said that?
Even with this new age shit thrumming in my ears, Absoidial Head on the Windshield, from their record Shimmied A Jack From The Response Purveyor — I’m walking backwards, and I’m unspooling the detritus of a caffeine o.d.
I fill up on sous-vide chicken because Ypsilanti is calling. The whiffle burgermeisters are out to bomb civilization, and good sense, back to 5700 B.C.E.
Nothing rings true — Tibetan bowls and tubular bells are testing positive for conformity. Pretty is as pretty bombs. Over 200,000 innocent citizens out with Helium Toast and Victory Biscuits fortified with Iodine 131 isotopes. That spells… well, that spells nothing good.
The Crank continues to quaver on that same C6 note for another two hours. No trees, no grass here, so I think I’ll immaculately inseminate The Crank — conception is for gutter liquidity and transistor yapping. Boy, does the Crank yap something fierce in this fetid air. It smells of sweat and dried fish in here.
I’m aghast that you might campaign for the steroidally concupiscent candidate on your two weeks sick leave. That’s not what I’m being paid for.
You’re overtaken most often in the early morning or late at night, but never at vespers. At vespers you sing a different Velvet Underground album each weeknight. During the instrumentals you dance to the song playing in your head.
My head, on propaganda, is in a foggy way.
And damned if we don’t live in the dark age of propaganda. But I’m on the case.
“I find writing extraordinarily difficult and not very pleasurable, though I find having done it very pleasurable.”
— David Rakoff