pANDEMIC eCCENTRIC
I hope things never go back to how they were. That normal wasn’t normal. Lost to digitized history seemed to be leisure with gravity, interstitial tranquility. The accuracy of vacancy. Nilness.
I want to lose track of days and check the time only to be surprised at the lateness of the hour. Dusk looming, innocent as a satellite.
A semi-poetic, unfocused, whiskey-soaked rant about the sweet spot between isms and that our choices in ideologues is a pack of false shaman preaching horseshit.