Atlanta band Little Tybee and some yo-yo master join forces
sand, magnified four times.
One day, he will go home. And stay? Will he stay there? And if no, will he, can he leave without running? Can he leave by conscious, deliberate choice? Can he leave and look back over his shoulder and smile? He is learning that the faster he runs, the longer his shadow gets, and hence the more abruptly, sharply, it catches up with him, slaps him in the back of the head like a rebounding rubber band, when he stops running. Knocking him into a stumble, a strugge to stay on his feet.
tuesday museday
the anomalous phenomenon of the developed American (men’s) bathroom: toilet paper placed delicately on the seat. paper towel in hand when opening the door. don’t touch the handle! two paper towel dispensers on the wall next to the blow dryer. so much luxury; options! how would you like your hands dried? a yard of paper or toastywarmblowndry, or both? sterile. fear of germs, of other people. of other people’s germs. denial of the reality and uniformity of a communal place to take a shit. this is what should bring us together! we all do it! every human! solidarity! the silence of the public bathroom. only weirdos talk in the public bathroom. medians between the urinals. don’t look at his dick! you could be gay! oh no! I saw it! I didn’t mean to!
just a thought
This ain’t the place for me
but the place I am, it is
if there’s a truth within it
no patience do I give
I re-join the blob
and it feels sadistic
