I keep thinking we might be able to reverse-engineer this whole fucking disaster.

51/49, 50% of the time.

One afternoon as he was stealing wifi behind the public library a dog ran by and licked his hand. Later he realized that in those 15 seconds he already loved the dog more than he would ever love himself.

By April, life has killed you.

She held up her hand and said, no photos. I don’t want to remember anything about this.

Your thoughts and words become your prison walls.
Luckily someone has left the key.

As a society, they exhibited a mania for naming, labeling and classification that subsumed the actuality of the thing itself.

In the harmonious spaces and bright clear sunlight of this elegant house, you feel an acute awareness of how coarse and awkward you’ve become. If only the light could pass right through you.

And then, gradually, fear becomes your way of life.

Active language receptors, but no coherent brain function.

If we admitted how terrifying life is,
would we need more drugs, or less?

With age he bore an increasing air of anger and resentment, as if unconsciously expressing the collective protest of dying cells.

Which is less unthinkable—the idea of returning to the beginning, and having to live through it all once more, or being at the end, and never doing it again?

My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?
(Prerecorded laugh track)
why art thou so far from helping me, and from the words of my roaring?
(laugh track)

We finally came to the end of big, dumb ideas.