hard to know what to make of all of this. the universal property of any disaster. we are so ready with our explanations, and when those break down. the incontrovertible facts are less than useless, and what we really wish to know comes from inherently untrustworthy sources. the existence of angels and devils has never seemed so unlikely. nothing, says gunter grass, is pure.

too much programming has left my brain with no consistency to speak of. writing code, i mean, not being brainwashed. become aware, in the absence of the usual lines of thought, that the same black discontent with the world still reigns its bony reign. odd the directions my desire turns now these days to escape the cold wind. tolkien recurs, images i have protected from peter jackson: the paths of the dead, mirkwood… who am i to deny how lovely that world is, perhaps most of all because it is not this world, with its endless cycle of days, eternal regress of knowledge, and murderous time