We have convinced ourselves this is the normal way to live, but there are siestas, and beyond, elsewhere. My cramped window shows me that there is more out there, but the vocation has drained too heavily for me to go out and enjoy it. To some extent, the job will always have all of me if it takes my time, takes its toll. What's the percentage work/life balance break down on that? Nevermind, don't think of that. Don't think of anything in fact. The more you wonder why it is to be this way, the sooner you escape the machine, and no one wants that. To leave it all, in the RV, New Mexico, maybe old Mexico, switch from frantic coffee to vibe tea. This would surely end the relationship hardship we've been experiencing, since we got together, day 1. My ex actually gave me this typewriter, and many other things. I sold it when times were tough, and then managed to buy it back. I like old discarded things the world would consider useless; everyone's forgotten everything, as if we can stand alone as a new form of species, humanidy, nothing to learn from anyone else. Regardless, my writing is all I can muster these days, but it's something, as there must always be an outlet; for no matter how we spend our days, we will still always be contained to our own self, a singular life of earthly limitations. Thus, our imagination, our thoughts, typed or not, ultimately provide us with the truest freedom possible. Now back to the grind!

I could out-drink Hemingway when I read The Sun Also Rises. It was during the college times, the salad years, so that sort of thing was acceptable. I had multiple salad years to come "how lucky are we". There were Thirsty Thursday specials that allowed even the poorest student to indulge, even buy a round for others, like they had already made it to the true goal of their studies $ isn't it disgusting, isn't it necessary, yet we can still watch bulls run between siestas without it, and maybe even still have a nice time from time to time.

Leaving the loft and the ground feels closer, the air thinner—is this what residual viruses tastes like? Something’s missing, something powerful and it feels like one’s been lost and looking for eternals—there’s an emptiness and it’s tangible --can’t find the phone. Even the phone had been socially distancing. Nothing will ever be the same again, the carefree days of the BC and BeforeCorona times or the 1950s or concerts or childhood before the divorce-all just washed away in a cloth that was too absorbent, more so than the toilet paper finally being replenished. Watch the trained ones report, petrified like trees, but there’s nothing concrete left in this jungle. It’s enough not knowing. They taught us that in agnosticism school (they changed the schedule weekly—because nothing is certain--)

We will come back hard with the vapid-ness because this has always been heavy for us and everyone will have had way too long to think. And that’s the downfall’s uprising. Too long to think. Good thing the borders are closed and the leader(s) maintain(s) complete power coupled with completer delusion. But what the (comp)trolling controllers learned was that nothing can in fact be controlled, only planned for (well that didn’t happen). The only right left is the left kind and the only left left is the wrong kind. Spoon-fed by feds yet still we indulge. How can there be business as usual with no business that’s usual left? Empty the gardens-business stopped b(looming). Been preparing since we bought the guns and the bunk boys built bunkers, with a quiver of timber. You will know the place to go after it all comes crashing, hopefully not on top of you. Killed in your fall(en)-out shelter---that hurt both physically and ironically.

“If you’d really given up hope completely, why were you still flossing? -What if I just like flossing? Nobody likes flossing. -There are enough people that a someone likes everything. Or at least, there used to be (joke, population’s fine. See you in the dome though...for next time)”

We create hourly gravestones for the living---just to remind us how we wasted our lives as we’re still living it—wonder what she could have master(piece)ed”-how sacred life once was—what will it take to change us?

The creatives are presenting their masterpieces, which all seemed a lot genius-er when they were talking their to walls in their reclusions. Everyone wasted their time and gained no perspective and learned less than nothing. Back to destroying the planet and living in an unsustainable, myopic manner. All the diseases of luxury will come back, including sourcelss depression. We still feel invincible even after we know how quickly it could all change. The allusions of dependability grip us almost immediately, complacency with an edge. Like the faint rumbling of Philip K Dick on mood relaxers at a dinner party with more than 10-20 gathered in close proximity. At least the masses are moving to the countryside, if they can afford it. (Many will justify these investments by saying trite things like “who could afford not to? Trite is no longer a thing because everything's serious.)

It’s always good to find g-d in a crisis, especially when g-d is the one responsible...reckless and unstoppable, wiping out the weak in weeks. All is pieced together only in the heavily heavenly channels. But where is that same g-d when crisis ends?

Everyone will make up their own version of what is going on. You remain scared? U want to be scared. You’re bored? You were before. You’re xanxious (Xanax+anxious)? Well you should be and you are prescribed by now. You’re not any of those things? Well we can work with that too.

The end of the world doesn’t happen all at once, like you expect it to, or maybe even want it to; it’s gradual and sustained and flickering panic, tugging you always to see what you refuse: it’s sharp and it’s often and it’s forcefully ignored. The choice to break free of freedom—it’s always been there crutching you with shadows paved in stone and chaos under jagged lid.