For the unearthed foundation photo? Three of coin. That’s no rose quartz, you know. Just pink sand. And that’s what you call a temporal oscillator.

My job? It’s documenting unknown trash scapes. It’s tiresome to scare the freight day after day, pore over non-followers. I see one’s still proud, says so, but there’s no market decree on noise. It’s just a standard suffocation, too long for brutalism’s retouch. That’s some beautiful concrete in the jungle right there.

Free time? Please see my works, you shall know me by my works. Some are styled so hard to look moody you could scream. But die wincing at their email thread, that spammed nostalgia? Come on, don’t check the radiant news feed before bed. It’s all gotta love the classics, I’m in love with this object, love love love it. If it’s in the past, forget it.

Feedback? Please direct all comments to the quartz articulate. Then I’ll coach you on spending time with friends & family, eating delicious healthy treats, breathing deep, starting your day off right, never giving up, being kind & compassionate, empowering those who don’t wish to be empowered, healing, crushing it, making every single day amazing, killing the competition.

Interested? This is no repugnant intimacy. I need you to understand this is a team effort to service the dream. Today’s cloudy and outsourced blaring with the big guns. Nothing more than a southern constable in a gas mask listening to our Yankee blather.

Happy? Right, the aesthetics are “corrupt.” Watching VHS, hiding Cool Ranch Doritos beneath your Indians cap, quietly mourning your loss of youth: all par for the course bruh. Skating, L.I.G.H.T, big t-shirt, X’ing up, ‘tallica, barbaric yawp, yawn: I feel you, I got you.

What have I got to do today? Slow-tech job-hunt, self-promotion failure, unacceptable amount of likes, absentee repost. Literally accelerationist: see the car & be all damn gotta get a pic, see the photo of the car and be all damn, killing it.

Happy? Today your mother is sitting at the laundromat reading a romance set in Kraków, wondering why there’s rust in the water. She messages you: I can see the house from here.

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Take a seat in the canteen, one nods and another sits, ignores you, takes a pile of bread from a brown bag and starts chewing, staring a few degrees off your sight-line: you ask how the platform is going, he looks confused, the first throws up his hands, rage passes round the veins.

There is a fiction of community, of unusual objects (we define “objects” as those embroiled in the digital transformation encouraging each other to kill it, crush it, natch) that runs counter to the inner-heat of the lonely office worker: he dreams of Joshua Tree, of taking acid and shooting guns at the moon.

She gets tired of the photos of the old cars, the Buicks and Pontiacs rusting in the desert or shiny on the silicon hills, the vending machines and street honeys, the demands to make the gatekeepers see, to show some wisdom in her movements, so in Paris she snaps a photo of a small laundromat as a requisite contribution to the community: she’ll have to decide whether it goes in a series, see about the likes.

That old-world stone upon stone may have been worth up to $6,000, which reminds you that you too are a tourist, that hostile architecture is new in the popular vernacular of poseur ur-texts: yet here you are, telling us about the research and image-making, like a copperhead ready to snip at the heel.

It’s all guess work, like getting flipped by an unfamiliar wind, moving from memory to history: a ringing phone has to be answered, doesn’t it.

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You guys, that photo’s either apparency or materiality, not both but more human than ever, mysterious and round like an eighties pastel blouse, a chemical reckoning of independence from the digital, from muted IRL contacts, friends watching each other turn into ghosts, forecasting re-completion with the nineties looking more rational than ever.

Dry like a chilled Original New York Seltzer, full of changes to interface and built-in machine learning, reassemblage, non-binary events, seductions of a cyborg, sociological records from the southern Polish foothills, bored control and memories up in flames.

Reminds me of that time we planned a traversal from the no-coasts, let distance provide desire and vice versa, basked in all that land freedom around the crushing uniformity zones at the Indiana border, it was way more difficult to demand low-code configuration and automated testing from the proud back then, sent as we were packages of used clothes for our birthdays, selfies taken with tired middle-aged eyes (selfies on film, even), stuck in a vestibule of moderately satisfying labor, the work of contemporary textiles, the last time we saw a wetting rain.

So yay let’s weave strangeness and misdirection together in some foreign land with a buddy who’s never left the country, doesn’t know what to ask or how, suddenly we see a bird with one leg land on a carnivorous climbing plant, all air and nerve, shadow and martini, childhood trauma, thus all Brooklyn-based novel character, a room booked for two adults zero children, cerebrotonic the result of so many spectacles of Midwestern affection.

Recall the kind words spoken without a patronizing glint on the way to lunch at That’s a Wrap, say yes to strategies of refusal on the menu, to needing little while wanting less and trying more, to researching how to type “post/humanism,” deleting all accusations and completing educations, mornings spent with the Stoicism app, evenings spent saying yes to being incomplete.

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Spend the better part of a decade incorporating the cartoon you can barely remember watching when you were four, the one with the trains. Where you live, with their laughing, levity, apparent lack of struggle. . .it also seems tiring. But any lie claiming a condition of life only reinforces your unwillingness to go over there and slip: you too see a beautiful fabric and want to be near it, feel its fiber. And at that point in the workflow, anger tears, scare quotes, bite occlusions: all coeval, born with a scar, the typical penumbra of an ultra-realistic series colored grey. To descant no more on what happens in other lands—the wound’s just down the road, after all—is to watch fruit fall shallow from the tree.

Do you see it, hear what is new through what can be purchased? Like a shadow always in ellipsis, mourning the sip of coffee, crawling up the wall to announce you as its sister, to question you about the qualia of such solitary and non-familial lifestyles, about the #1 problem of non-identity, the law of natures, this baize-muffled quiet time you seek when nothing suitable can be found in the bright afternoon. Is it all that different from paintings of shipwrecks, or firefighters kneeling for a photo in front of the house ablaze?

The word on people is that there is an ultimate scarcity of writing, but systemic silence is far from the default, judging by this index of gestures for each bedtime, this sequence of rain blowing, rapturous acclaim for correct comma positions. In other words, digital fanfare is drawn from a seemingly infinite well of posturing, our desire to be both in front of the lens and the lens itself. So when “what a relief” becomes “what a release” down at mile-marker one dot portrait-of-the-past, Cairo, Ohia, you know you’re in for more than a post-Soviet aesthetic.

We’re in the #1 Safe Space and this is how we do, how we market. Now: senior social strategist where we build awesome stuff, and then: thirty-first employee of social kittens plus avocado toast jokes. Super lucky to be part of this family, to feel appreciated pushing yourself every damn day: so lucky to live the #{branded}life, to be so excited you’re going to ugly-cry.

Only the best times in this firmament, we cannot imagine moving anywhere else. Want to lay down and read the continuous glissando? Check out these photobooks: refugees, water towers, stray dogs, bus stops. Want to watch a documentary? We got Vietnam, capitalism, environment, internet. Looking to enter a wilderness of machines at war the exact moment work becomes more noble than play? Observe these vapor trails delimiting u-topos: no memory at work, no thinking at all. Nice, huh??

Awaken to her double-marked questions, typewritten double-spaces on the screen, Sporto’s sweaters and swagger, the God of Taxes, evil defined then perpetuated in story after story. You feel alive, you feel supported, you feel depressed, you feel isolated, you are freelance, you speak out about it, you feel proud, you tell us how proud others are of you, you repeat how lucky you are. I am telling you all of this to elicit sympathy and emotion, fam.

No plan for quality
Off anchor spring
We are not
Well, here we are

Somewhere far away, stringed instruments pluck themselves for the last time, ready to pull apart just for the sake of it, to remember the sound their fibers felt, ached. To end it all for wont of words: that’s the language provided among the din when there is no din. The pause drops like a bedsheet off a clothes line onto the wetter part of the grass, marking not dirt nor earth, only the beginning of what will have to be washed again.

Deep into the idea of home, staring at the sinner, you’ve been followed cross continents for so long: no need to work when working with no need is a crutch. Imagine if you fought fires, your only real possession a skull, smart enough to horse around.

Butterflies may drink blood when given the chance: they tunnel round the light, form a tunnel around the light. A litany of problems is only one kind of litany, not the problems themselves. Beneath those in need is a series of contemporary tapestries: there’s the usual structure full of people, they keep returning to a locked attic, someone sends us a mirror in the mail. In addition to our stones & diamonds, the formant stays the spectral peak, the identity suck. Who doesn’t like watching people watch people? Observe as a monolinguist and stay quiet, do not speak as a failure. You will see only a few incapable of desiring to plant an apricot tree.

Un-extinction brings two impossible things together. What will death be like: piano teacher, mountains, disaster recovery, dead mall? Eternity as that rare find heretofore ignored, meanwhile all the white we can conceive is there: looking inward with a momentum of compassion beyond distaste, middle-aged with few middle-aged preoccupations.

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no parody nor reassembling going down
at flea markets in bucyrus

deep in afternoon firefight
from screen to cellophane

vapor spills into all kinds of reality
based communities: after all

occult architecture takes two shadows
to complete, fewer when loved ones face

neither east nor west and miss organs
made of bones: never been a brother

never will desire spawn to crystal
grail hashtag obsessed with gamelan

no them, only us, our safe space
and great future materiality

with its need of a great past or nil
all these folks convinced of goodness

slash destiny so telegenic, read as “fun
yet still searching” off the grid

see it through the globe connected
half the time only via app

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for your own good
clearly easier

to make folks you
disagree with obscure
emotions than
appropriate or conserve
like pundits

just look at me
on a boat
asking honestly

have they ever even tried
to sample suffering
from totalitarian relations


PSA: make sure
you ready sources
chastise name
calling sublimate
instant turnoffs
for a measured explanaish
in flyover


asking for a friend
limited perception regime
did they deserve it


theory: in a certain
type of hell
followers gloat
midwestern earnestness

you bet

hot take: the worst
humans wake up that way

see sidewalk
tore up three weeks
versus two years plus
of car rust
back the house

theory: ending
bullying as effective
as not waking up

as our freedom
to spend

swap it out
actively ignore

enjoy porch drinks
with good people

virtue signal

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