One Hundred Percent Width.
What about the rest of them? What about the ones forgotten by years of dust and strata of mildewed cardboard? What about the #1s, the #100s, the final issues?
You forget about the world outside the soap bubble, your eyes fade to gray from watching the sun change from rainbow to invisible silence, you think the traffic can guide itself into Möbius stripes, (sic) so you float along suspended by Ernie Balls and rosin-rubbed twine.
Airtight Garage seems so long ago. The Way Things Work, Final Fantasy, The Night Kitchen, etc. The great expanse of concrete and grass, light and water, glass and neon below and above and below.
Where do our kid fears go for finishing school? What do they wear to commencement? What is their last unselfish act before casting aside their chrysalis and blooming into a new business model for avant-garde throwback records?
And another thing. Five more minutes. One more time. Keep going around the block. Move around to the far side of the tree, out of the sun. Keep down. Lower.
The world was made in the image of a calcified and myopic thing with two-dimensional thinking. The world was created by cut-and-paste. Repeated repetition only hastens the ennui of the immediate atmosphere and aggravates the cysts that threaten to burst below.
Wither you? A desktop icon? A misspelled footnote? A flat picture at the bottom of the bowl?
⎋
You forget about the world outside the soap bubble, your eyes fade to gray from watching the sun change from rainbow to invisible silence, you think the traffic can guide itself into Möbius stripes, (sic) so you float along suspended by Ernie Balls and rosin-rubbed twine.
Airtight Garage seems so long ago. The Way Things Work, Final Fantasy, The Night Kitchen, etc. The great expanse of concrete and grass, light and water, glass and neon below and above and below.
Where do our kid fears go for finishing school? What do they wear to commencement? What is their last unselfish act before casting aside their chrysalis and blooming into a new business model for avant-garde throwback records?
And another thing. Five more minutes. One more time. Keep going around the block. Move around to the far side of the tree, out of the sun. Keep down. Lower.
The world was made in the image of a calcified and myopic thing with two-dimensional thinking. The world was created by cut-and-paste. Repeated repetition only hastens the ennui of the immediate atmosphere and aggravates the cysts that threaten to burst below.
Wither you? A desktop icon? A misspelled footnote? A flat picture at the bottom of the bowl?
⎋