Twitter: Fake Christopher Walken.
Clicking through ticket after ticket, work is interrupted by cookies and impromptu myths, glad for the heart, subscription hard on the brain. Planning tonight over text messages, chocolate/hazelnut cake Y/N, the a/s/l of bakeries as David hunts on foot, tracking down baked goods downtown as I sit trapped in the office, my company a lemon ginger cup of tea, testing music tracks that have yet to be released, wagers of popularity against winter coats in small sugary solfedge doses.
This week holds so much relative, discriminating promise as to be nigh unbearable. Already microelectronic moments have begun to develop like rosebuds blushing on the tip of my tongue. Wrapped in the untethered joy of feeling inadequate, (like music you want to play so loud you bleed from the eyes), I am caught by a thread of invitation punctuation I am not in control of, confronted with an arsenal of black t-shirts and faked secret societies in shaken hotel rooms stocked with cryptic, cutting edge commentary in twisted acronym languages I only half recognize. It’s glorious. Comfortable and irreversible, like swimming through a seething bath of sweet, primitive nanobots programmed to overwhelm with fuzzy blankets.