i trust in the electronic eye. it sees all things and it knows what’s right.
crackers and carrots, contemplating chain links and emails.
johnny appleseed and john carmack playing tug of war.
scratch away the pornohraphic veneer and see clear for the first time in years.
love shackled behind brass battled doors of technology and habit.
where is george’s tums, he’s got the runs. not fun, not fun.
high dynamic range cyborg organic eyeballs to see fluorescent sunlight with.
the whole fucking planet tastes like perfume. we’re trying to find others. the hubble is looking and the homeless are cooking their brains in space and it tastes like toothpaste.
rusty strings are ringing. we spent the day drinking and singing. rooftops and Asians, gawking and applauding; wind and waves, a burden, a blessing.
perfection depends on the precision of your perception.
significance is out of reach. sample size is too small, but everyone comes to call.
recreational outrage is the post modern propaganda, stoked to encourage the accidental smothering of crying conversations that might otherwise have grown both parent and child.