041 A - Rule the event horizon

Today’s track is today’s Sofa Flower Moon sped up. I suspect given the complexities of the week that this will be the algorithmic production for Friday’s piece as well. Have a wonderful Tuesday.

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We are moving houses this week. This one has become cramped and flawed. It has been a good house. It's kept us safe. It has allowed us to keep working. We farmed meat. 

We felt everything here. We have screamed and it echoed through our messages to you. And in turn we have heard you scream. This is where we were, when we read it, this is where we've been for the whole goddam now. 

The walls are the colors of stained teeth. Competently applied but with each successive panel, variation in texture and brightness becomes additive. These smooth zones of differentiated sterile mud are interrupted only by the tears in the plaster that have emerged from years of overcoats and quarantine. We won't get our deposit back. 

We've grown together, truly closer and and also in various Stockholm syndrome ways that should provide years of amusement when we both realize we've forgotten to stock up on our talismanic toiletry supply. We'll realize that it doesn't matter because the only reason we don't have any is because it all expired and we don't use it and we'll laugh at how truly insane we've become and add some oxytocin to Tuesday's ever evolving tincture. If we're too tired we'll scream, but if we're lucky, we'll laugh.

Covid is over, long live covid. My plan to limit our exposure while working with a moving crew is to open some windows in the house and turn the heater down, and leave the windows open until I get back from the house we're moving into where I've done the same thing. I'll wear my mask in the house and wipe everything down. Then I will sit down and pray to the discontinuous ocean of sprites who rule the event horizon and I will say: 

"Dear sprites, it is with great humility and joy that I ask you to save, cure and/or absolve me from Covid. Thank you, I have brought my dead molted suit of impotent rage as offering. It is perhaps too ripe, take pity on me."

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