Ominous cloudscapes, mountain roads, music to rip your heart out.

Snow flurries warp past the windshield, motion-blur, a starfield simulation.

I’m triangulating off gross landscape features, echo-locating.

Assigning local meaning, at this manifestation of scale.

And you might make a thing holy. Index everything to a single colour frame –

To that obscurest of sorrows, the moment of tangency:

It’s seconds, minutes, decades away.

I didn’t blink, and I missed it anyway.

If a tree falls in the forest, it’s an arbitrary event.

Life’s hard-forks are just waypoints, too.

Successive phases of madness. It’s a single story.

No what-ifs, no parallels. And for a season, for no reason – a universe occurs.

Grains of its self-awareness circle the local star.

Eleven hundred miles a minute, artefacts everywhere, and I’m still hoping for an everything’s gonna be fine attack.

If it helps, this was never about you.

If it helps, nothing defines your sojourn here.

If it helps, consider the user interfaces.

Somewhere over the horizon, my expectations are mating with reality.

Identify with universe.


The train of thought evaporates.

Attention surfs naked, on the edge of the moment.

The winter sun breaks through sepia clouds.

And really, the high places are exquisitely rendered:

Impressionist golden foliage.

Tunguska-like windthrow.

A loving-kindness of snow.



If it helps, they only look like anything from in here.

And a flock, a laugh borne on the wind, hurls across luminous skies –

Seconds, minutes, decades away.


Explore days

There’ll come a point when even taking the trash out is impossible.

Let the in-game interludes regain the quality of adventure; freestanding, necessary, sufficient.

The childhood state. Unmarred by rumination, retrospection.

The other irony of nostalgia is, you’re trying to arbitrage nows.

Immersion is eternity.

An oak canopy, in the longlight, seems to have infinite interior space.

Morale is good, once you net out existential angst and 10-year plans…and everything nets off in the end.

Pyre II

We can store so much of the present, it’s got to be screwing us up.

Purges are an overhaul of the lie, a reprojection of the CRS.

Jettisoning the past by proxy.

As if one could escape under the wire, one artefact at a time.

As if one could front-run entropy.

Minimalism is just the slimmer twin of hoarding.

If you’re in control of letting go, you’re not letting go at all.

User illusion

As a child I would be overcome by a floating-out sense of disbelief at being here, at the preposterousness of everything.

Wall hack to now. I visit trees that knew me from those days.

Familiar voices, in this meadowsweet breeze.

Incoming tide, creek fills slowly.

Not much action required at this point.