I was formed in the shopper's eye
It is just some random day, which could be any day. Have I written that sentence before? I’ll write it again. The weather itself is perplexing, clouding over long enough to trick you into thinking it’s going to be a crappy day, shortly before the sun bursts through again and you think, how manic the weather is. I actually find myself thinking about Tim Drawbridge again, and am then creeped out by my same obsession with this human being: is Tim Drawbridge married with children? Or is he some hanger on— the creep at the end of the bar who women, no matter his bizarre manifestations, latch onto the intangible charm beyond? These are the things I’m thinking about, I actually find myself thinking. And then I change the subject, the television channels of the mind, when the thinking about thinking becomes the thinking itself, so far removed.

I am listening to a punk rock song right now and experiencing the placebo of context. I remember this song, and my experience with it is transporting me five years or more, which mine as well be a century ago (which, at least in the currency of song form, actually is a century ago. Although, I guess you might make the argument that if a song means something, it might actually transcend the value of commodity, but that’s an argument better saved for a different time and place and author, who may not be me). I’m thinking about what my life was like then, walking around the art school campus and taking it all in. It seems, sadly, like I have not changed at all. Did I just hit the wall? I wonder—like when your body has matured to a point where it’s not going to mature any further. Or do you just begin to disintegrate, falling apart completely? Or are the changes more subtle and I’ve just forgotten completely, with the inability to compare? The only way to know, I guess, is if you write everything down, and unfortunately I do write things down. The blog itself is some paltry reflection of this, and there it is, laid out before me, to observe with no lack of chagrin. It could be worse, I guess. But the song at least, is still the same; it couldn't sound better.