I put a vague description of my record collection on craigslist and some guy says he's interested in all of them. I don't know if he's serious, or if he has any idea of the size of my collection. Tonight I should make a complete itemization so there's no confusion.
It's nearly 8 o'clock, the sun is shining bright, and nothing really matters. Maybe I'll have an extra beer at the bar tonight, and maybe it will hurt tomorrow. It's very sobering to be disconnected from some kind of project that builds on itself and has some aim or goal, yet to be in that sort of arrangement is just a distraction from the notion that it's all trivial. I'll die, hopefully in a ton of debt, and I'll be free from people running their mouths about trials they read incomplete coverage of in biased newspapers, or people who invoke some Abrahamic God into every occurrence.
Is this more real than I was feeling two weeks ago, or are they equally real but from different planes? When I spend my days biking and reading instead of drinking and smoking, my outlook is significantly more positive. Alcohol's a downer and there's nothing comforting about feeling like a dog on a leash that needs to be let outside every two hours. Cigarettes offer an interesting dichotomy that I'm sure I've mentioned before: when I'm not smoking they become the chains that hold me down, and when I haven't been smoking they represent the perfect companion in a car I'm driving far over the speed limit to prove to myself that I can do whatever I want whenever I want.
And now I've got this moral compass that's full of bad wiring. I've nothing to blame, not even myself.
There's a man in Papau New Guinea, a member of one of the few remaining tribal communities in the world, and he's being sought to stand trial for shooting a tourist full of arrows.
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