A man had a heart attack at a Starbucks the other day. I keep thinking about his glasses, fedora, and newspaper on the table next to mine—the remains of his plan to have a coffee and read the Times before his life blew apart. We’re all ticking bombs. Savor the mundane.
As if to confirm that dystopia has arrived, I catch a glimpse of a beloved actor from the 1980s smiling across three flatscreens in an empty lobby, encouraging everyone to triple reverse-mortgage their homes. Today a candidate called someone at a campaign event “a lying dog-faced pony soldier,” attempting to summon the ghost of John Wayne for some reason. But why do I know this? Strange how access to so much information somehow makes the world smaller, condensing it to a few lightning strikes.
As of 5pm today, New York City should have received fifteen inches of snow this season. So far we’ve had only four. Right now there are storms on Jupiter, unwitnessed and unseen. This morning I woke from a cluttered dream that included a giant who knelt down to tell me I was committing infidelity because I’m cheating on death with time. Taking a break from Photoshopping tonight, I laid down on the carpet and thought: Do it with love or not at all.
