In the sudden burst of cloud and rain after so much sun, Spring hit a window, fell to the ground, stunned. You could see its imprint upon the window: a dusky shadow of wing and beak. Shake it off, Spring, you’ll be okay, won’t you?
Scientists today have announced the discovery of a particularly virulent strain of Cheetos.
Let’s just keep this between you and me.
About as bad as learning how sausages are made, this.
Oh crap, oh crud, oh criminy.
The only time I had my bearings in the Southern Hemisphere.
Taking a walk, taking a wander.
On leave for a spell. Not long enough to go native, but enough to get some work done, different perhaps than the work of here and environs. The nature of that work? Good question.
I’ve no answers, am bad at anything but gray area most of the time, and ultimately bad at breaking routine, as desperate as we all tend to be to do so. There are little to no expectations, save to take pictures, write. Look and go “ooh.” But maybe with a bit more critical thought behind the “ooh.”
On the other hand, it’s entirely possible I’ll just be watching flightless birds and drinking beer for the next thirty days, which, in the grander schemes of life, won’t sound half bad by the end (it’s always easier to have a good time when that time’s run out). Here, the recycling needs to be taken out and the neighbors are having an emotionally drunky conversation. What am I waiting for?
So: don’t feel bad if you over-water the plants, help yourself to the beer in the icebox, and see you in December.
The flooring in Las Vegas compels gamblers to play on ceaselessly, a lack of windows spurring them toward some late evening that turns into morning with nary a glance at the time.
Convention center carpeting blandly soothes, provokes permanent smile, you look down and realize that you should be shaking more hands. It looks like tapeworms.
The trash of San Francisco is special trash—you wouldn’t be wrong to call it tech trash—it’s smart trash, urban trash, trash that knows where to go and when.
What we’re talking here is 21st century trash.
It somewhat makes sense that the accountants got raptured first.
Welcome the new political oratorical style.
It’s time you learned where pigeons come from, he said, and took you by the shoulders, pointed you at the asphalt where the feathery mess issued forth.
Ick, that’s not how the boys down the street described it.
Now that you mention it, suspicious how you never see them at the same time, at the same place: must be in cahoots.
You think you can put all the pop in a box and leave it on the street? No, you cannot. The infectious beats, they are inside you.
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