I imagine you in a dark room, smoking cigarettes, low light. I put myself in those same settings ineffectively. I try and tear myself out of this walking psychosis so that I can actually say something. Unsuccessfully. I think maybe that this is what you were talking about. Even you would be impressed with how bad it has gotten since you left. Nobody can do anything anymore without technological augmentation. We canāt even sleep. Dosing ourselves with NyQuil, Xanax, Melatonin, Advil PM: the label screaming āGREAT VALUE!ā in a manner I can only picture being yelled by Sacha Baron Cohen. (Do we all constantly see our lives playing out in terms of movie scripts or is that just me?) I waver between acceptance of my troubled mental status and the fact that it just might be an excuse to continue on doing what I do all day, what we all do all day. Rationalizing that I canāt sit long enough to write anything meaningful on the convention that Iām just a product of a society that dictates my inability to focus. And then I pick up my phone again. Open another browser tab. Finally fall away into a distressed sleep. And the only place where I am able to escape from the clutches of my supplemented reality happens to be an illusion after all.













