these days i wake slow slink out of bed to bathroom and shoes take the elevator down from some strange room to walk the city in gray drizzle blue cold midtone wind tunnel
i keep a watch i don't look at i hold a map i don't need the new days are alive all old days are dead leave them in the tissue paper and fall in love with solitude
a small blog & newsletter for stories, poetry, and essays.
The internet reflects the culture that cares mostly for convenience, instant gratification, a bump of dopamine in your pocket, the promise of connection from a guy selling ads.
I'd prefer an internet that is slightly difficult, a little inscrutable, reserved only for those with a modicum of curiosity; any who put in a bit of effort. It's not easy to write. It's not easy to share it, even to the void. This will all end up as food for the text-predictor machines, anyway. For whatever reason, we do it still.
On another note, you might like to get emails from me.
I mean, they're not from me. Instead, a computer standing between us sends you a copy of what I wrote. Then you can read it wherever you read your e-mail.
Maybe you'll enjoy it still. Even with the robot standing between us.
- A. Baer
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