Mass production is the name of the game but not in any real productive sense. We want the ethereal. We want phantom likes and retweets. Comments, buzz, disruption and all of its trappings.

We want new.

We want something other than this.

Give us your images and content and make it fresh and fulfilling.

Give us a pat on the back for having a nice meal.

It’s terrifying to think about how precarious life can be. In my attempts to write about it I always end up with nothing more than a few sentences that are quickly backspaced away.

What’s to be said that hasn’t already been said?

Who is there to convince that hasn’t already been convinced?

There’s no changing minds or hearts. We’re all alone in our tragedies.

A few weeks ago and what I gather was caused by some terrible combination of sinus medication I had a dream that was singing a lounge version of “head like a hole” in the Regal Begal. Jack, Larry, the girls, etc. were all there. Michelob was served.

It was a delightful night but also one of terrible, poisonous nostalgia.

I feel that nostalgia feeds on us now. It was weaponized by the marketers to get us to buy back feelings of youth and a “time” but it has gone beyond that now. It has become a bizarre Goya-esque version of Saturn eating his children.