Hemorrhaging sanity the day before tomorrow. Watching people who watch other people who watch for signs of volatile smiles. Like an Escher painting, splashed in nonsense arrows on a filthy canvas of playgrounds. Black Monday shouts all in unison, all the way down, from the four amygdal corners. A few hours of imaginary table talk at the cost of a lifetime of labor. The resilience of comradie cheapened by late-night whisky and the synthesis of community. Defer to a higher authority-- to the god of your god, the one dressed in the immaculate tie and vest-- for absolution. The Matrix preserves itself.

3:54 p.m. - 2021-02-04