“I know that you have not yet grasped the trajectory, the inevitability of you shedding your biological form.” expatpress.com/trash_stratum…

Watching Alfred Hitchcock Presents as a kid got me hooked early on the turn of the screw. Such a nasty habit.

The mist rolls in every night like a tide, a wall of white with streetlight islands. It means so much to me.

Bow but never bootlick

Erowid trip reports forever

FYI there are more birds in Bushwick than ever before, a great flock covered all the rooftops and murmured excitedly as I lay there, feeling other versions of myself on other timelines that rippled out and sometimes intersected with one another. The primary effect was redaction.

Sheep grazing around solar panels in a field of yellow grass. Clouds moving behind other clouds. The light lands already compromised like Lipstick stitches on chapped lips.

Just when I think social media is truly useless I read someone commenting, “I’m really thrilled about this!” in response to a post about Anne Carson and I’m happy to imagine this person in their own little corner of the world, smiling.

10/26 is a very big deal. Just ask Donnie Darko.

A post-collapse future in which PKD’s Exegesis is treated at a sacred text.

I’m on the street, biting the heads off limited edition Sakura matcha Pocky. The color matches the turquoise of my rings stacked like luck on every finger.

There is a book written in a choose your own adventure format about tripping on mushrooms in Walmart.

How can I receive if I never ask?

The last shot of the original Star Trek is at once so peaceful and melancholy: Spock attempting to mind meld with a sleeping Kirk while whispering in his ear, “Forget, forget.”