Turbulence

The machines does everything I want it to.
It marches in time and only questions me if I tell it to question me.

So many tasks that made thinking difficult are no longer necessary.

This atrophy is concerning.

Hemingway finished himself for about the same reason.

Both afflictions are self-instantiated.

A broken one, but one that suits our transgressions

Don’t feel shame for the loss of the past

Art is created in the present

I have to include a weak ass story or I’ll get ripped by a really finicky friend.

Shared a glass of absinthe, an Uruguayan skirt steak slathered in chimichurri, some Japanese whiskey and the sound of a local Gypsy Jazz band from Brooklyn with my Ukrainian friend Greg. This is America.