I can't explain it, that cat was fixed.
Late night. Insomnia fueled by a ticking clock in my mind. I can create while I sleep, but can I share it with the world? I have no critiques of the age-of-overshare, so long as it is not violating the privacy of another. It may not all be interesting but I still have more critique of ceasing the exchange of ideas. Eric reads to me from the blog of another performance artist and it's a frustration that the performance, a thing in the moment, is gone, but there's still this imprint of the ideas in writing. Our space remains more haunted by the living than the dead, the removers of shells don't seem to have been paid for the building any more than the physical trash pick-up. The landlord will be the one in trouble for the latter, though he still repeatedly does it, but the former will eat a person alive if they don't keep their nose clean, their shields up, and the common sense not to shit where they eat.
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