All the cautionary tales of civilization are spread out in my dreams. Up first: Charles Babbage tried to convince me, just last night, that statistics will help the poor. I really dreamt this. Later I dreamt of acorns. I woke up with the little dog kissing my face and the big dog staring at me.
The rocks are big and bad. America. Everyone staggers under monetized fear. All those hopeless baseball hats. Everyone needs a service animal.
Ptolemaic America—what they mean by exceptionalism. We’re at the center. This is of course ridiculous. It makes my lips numb from mumbling.
I also mumble in my sleep. Good morning Emily Dickinson. Happy birthday.