nice person

i feel like my spirit is markedly serene when it is present but often it's not, it is whisked off away somewhere while i feel like a terrified spiritless body wanting it to come back

i could stare and look at marvin cone's landscape paintings forever

Years go by. Occasionally, just occasionally, and without knowing why, Belano remembers the day on which he arbitrarily announced the death of Burroughs. It was a clear day; he was walking with Lima on Calle Sullivan; they’d left a friend’s place and the rest of the day was free. They might have been talking about the Beats. Then he said that Burroughs was dead, and Lima went pale and said, He can’t be. Sometimes Belano thinks he can remember Lima shouting: He can’t be! It’s impossible. Unjust. Or something like that. He also remembers Lima’s grief, as if he’d been told of the death of a very dear relative, a grief (although Belano knows that grief is not the right word) that persisted through the following days, until Lima was able to confirm that the information was incorrect. Something about that day, however, something indefinable, leaves a trace of uneasiness in Belano. Uneasiness and joy. The uneasiness is actually fear in disguise. And the joy? Belano generally thinks, or wants to believe, that what lies hidden behind the joy is nostalgia for his own youth, but what lies hidden is really ferocity: a dark, enclosed space busy with blurry figures, adhering to one another or superimposed, and constantly on the move. Figures that feed on a violence they can barely control (or can only control by means of a very strange economy). Although it seems counterintuitive, there is an airy quality to the uneasiness provoked by the memory of that day. And the joy is subterranean, like a geometric ship, perfectly rectangular in shape, gliding along a groove. Sometimes Belano examines the groove. He leans forward, he bends over, his spinal column curves like the trunk of a tree in a storm and he examines the groove: a deep, clean trace, parting a strange kind of skin, the mere sight of which makes him feel nauseous. The years go by. And they rewind. In 1975 Belano and Lima are friends, and every day they walk, unknowingly, along the brink of the abyss.

when i don't read, my mind is dead. after a long enough time, it begins to decompose

it feels like most of the people who "hate summer" & "prefer winter" for nebulous cozy vibes etc just never really genuinely engage with the notion of 'being outside' - their only frame of reference is how hot it is in the 30 second walk from the car to the house

listening to Lemon Demon's "eighth wonder" for the first time since maybe 2019 and just thinking to myself some variation of "i used to care about so many things"

nothing sounds good. there's no new music anymore. i discover like one new song i like a month

back then - you had to at least have telegrams, documents, communiques, written orders, memorandums. now all the orders and communications that matter are conducted in session chats on disposable accounts that are set to self-delete after 2 hours and can only be accessed using encryption keys that are *technically* somewhere but nobody *actually* has - see crypto oligarchs and Thiel personally bankrolling Session's existence despite it being terminally unprofitable. history will not give clarity to anything anymore - we know all that we are ever going to know. the sky is blue. we live in a Perfected Totalitarian State.

i've been passively observing the state of asinine fandom-tinged internet discourse for probably a decade now and it's really never been quite as bad as it is now. people are arguing about whether games made in 2017 were written with AI. very soon there isn't going to be any culture at all - not even bad culture.

you don't see many movie trailers narrations starting with "this summer…" in a deep voice anymore. (thinking intensely) you also don't really see tend to see caramelized apples

i enjoy the taste of specifically low-quality shitty apple juice, bad artificial apple is almost comforting somewhat