Has my life been reduced to a senseless back-and-forth of work/school/drink/sleep/work/school/drink/sleep? Or is that an elevation? Sure, I can make you a wicked nice latte, but what the fuck does that have to do with anything? I realized this last night: what I really want to do - what I REALLY want to do - is master the art of the katana and wander Asia and Eastern Europe fighting my enemies. No interac, no Simpsons at 5 PM, no 950 ml. can of Molson Export at the depanneur after work. Just me, my sword, my hooded cloak and a whole lot of dead dudes. I think that if I could hack that, I'd be a lot more forgiving of my other shortcomings.

I always envy my colleague and ex-roommate cabin fever's nicely stylized writeups. Am I guilty of the sin of envy, or is his stuff really that dope? You decide. Between you and me, I think the guy has a way with words in a fashion similar to a glassblower's way with heated sand. All I can do is slap them down onto the old binary sheet. He turns them into acrobatic displays. I hate his guts.

Kant. How about him, eh? The rigorous old guy. Gosh, I would've loved to have taken him out for a beer and watched him fuss over his schedule being messed up. The more I read him, though, the more I'm behind his project in a lot of ways. Read the Critique of Judgment; the guy is onto something. Forget that son of a bitch Hegel and his quest for completed meaning, Kant understood and respected that gap between what we can say we know and what we wish we could. Not trying to become God is a worthwhile project. Let's work on the reversal of man, while we're at it. It'll be all that and an AK-47.

I have no hilarious stories to share with you, e2. I am profoundly sorry. All I have is steps I've been retracing in my head all day. It's all just so much broken pottery rattling around in here. Forgetfulness makes me guilty of the sin of omission. I think a theme is developing here. Everybody should just listen to Scarub and forget about it. The fact of the matter is I'm a negative space surrounded by living breathing threads of active being. The fact of the matter is I'm tired of this sheeit. The fact of the matter is that the older I get, the more the facts matter.

MF Deluxe the melancholy recluse.