Electrified guitar strings reverberate in concert with windblown grass. I cross my arms, jut out my chest and lean back into a park-bench. When the sun appears from behind a patch of clouds, I raise my face to greet it. When others walk past on a sidewalk, I pick up my phone and make myself look normal. Nothing here, folks. Continue with your day. BTW, thanks, all of you anti-humanities STEM folks. This is a really great world you’ve created for us. Compulsory labor in support of nominally profit-driven capture of tuition dollars by layers of administrative bloat. They house us in square-plot rent-extraction prisons. Students, when asked about culture, know only the debased form it takes in lousily-acted young adult TV dystopia snoozefests like The 100. Better, thus, to withdraw and to agitate. Inhale while listening to Lea Bertucci’s “Patterns for Alto.”
As the 23rd hour of the 23rd day approached, shit got witchy. Additional synchronicities involving the number “23” cropped up, as did stories of witches. Let us conjure, let us legislate. Adjust the speed of the present with ADT’s “Unlimited Self-Service.”
Fearsome cat god mask lifts from the face of a female figure skater. To her side, applying commentary, sits the critic: the alien with the pulsing brain.
Trance-Scripts 