3.9.20 We're burning full, uncut moon beams tonight and it stings. It's how I describe the valley to my east coast associates, a background caffeine high riding on the air and the cars and the advertisements in SFO. I've missed the buzz. A wayward chemistry of western expansion and capitalist predation in the networked subconscious of a sleeping cityscape. Its an addiction 3.10.20 There's something blasphemous about surgery. We tell stories of arcane practitioners conjuring blood pacts and soul bargains but the surgeons scalpel is not so different. In another world, digging into the flesh and rearranging it would be a high transgression against the natural order. Bye bye toenail, you tried your best given the circumstances 3.11.20 Can you see the lines? I can't. At least not today. Paths change quickly, and plans have to adapt. Viral and intoxicating fear is an exponential mover; Yesterday I was somewhere else entirely this weekend. Now we're stuck in limbo, a superposition of coasts. Theres nothing for me to be in Nebraska and I'd like to leave 3.12.20 Winter comes again, but with no Fall proceeding. Shame, really. October has the best aesthetics. Now I'm left with a divergent conundrum: hibernation, or metamorphosis. Dead time can be either a gift given or a gift received. Not sure which one yet, not really sure I'll even have a choice 3.13.20 Nothing happened today and that's hardly something. Days are falling into old patterns again: regression in all senses. I'm dancing on a blade's edge, skipping on the metastable stratosphere of my previously cached subroutines. Re-entry may be an inevitability, but I can at least pretend to have control over the insertion point. Maybe I won't incinerate 3.14.20 I'm hunting the mythical _Aesthetic_ and getting nowhere. We're surrounded by masks on all sides, but, once donned, they drift behind perspective and out of sight. Maybe this feed is just another cry into the abyss; a naive desire to intone some echolocated orientation amongst the cosmic background radiation. It's raining here. I think I like it 3.15.20 Today is nice numbers. Had somewhat of a numbers day anyways, sliding digits and stacking up products. Productivity is a myth devised and perpetrated by the middle management of ontology. Fuck that jazz. I ought to hunt down some new stories because my current ones aren't cutting it so much anymore, they're just kinda sitting there. It's hard to conjure a narration of sitting around, though 3.17.20 Oops. Missed a day. Seem to be sliding through the cracks anyways. Soluble scheduling will do that. Making things is a good break out strategy, but finding inspiration in tired rooms is hard. The net is supposed to solve that, but it feels drowsy too. Oh well, maybe it'll all fall down anyway 3.18.20 To struggle against disparate threads of intentionality and weave them into a tapestry is divine. Especially when achieved using a hacked together last-minute tech solve. External reality is more and more ephemeral; I feel that I almost tore it while walking today. The whole world's taking a catnap 3.19.20 I'm not sure how it's possible to expend so much energy, and achieve so little. Something almost transgressional about forgoing productivity and leaning into nothingness. Or maybe it's just depression: the classic twenty-first century question 3.20.20 Twenty twenty baby. Haven't had twenty twenty vision this entire year, in all senses. I ripped a parasite out of an infected computer today. Took quite a bit of wrangling between the intentionally installed parasites, but I got it out in the end. I sometimes wonder how people can live with their browsers dripping with adware and cockroaches, but then I look around my room and chuckle 3.21.20 also good numbers today. Arithmetic sequences aren't as aesthetically pleasing as geometric though so w/e. I told a story today. It wasn't a particularly good one, and I made most of it up on the fly, but at least it's mine. I'm getting out of practice, but I've forgotten how to get back in. Maybe more books. My current one is kinda lame 3.22.20 Three of a kind. I've been craving horror recently. Maybe quarantine isn't giving me enough excitement, but I self quarantine a solid eighty percent of the year anyway so I'm not sure whats changed. If I understood phenomenology I might be able to come up with something clever, but that class fucking sucked. Fear might just be one of the last primal instincts I can really build on in this self-repressed state of being. Children of the corn was a fun read, though 3.23.20 Dreams are bleeding into afternoons are bleeding into evening are bleeding into dreams. Too much water in the colors. Today I performed a ritual older than any religion. Life coaxed from hibernation prospers in an artificial pasture until judged in the hellfires of proliferation. Brioche twist with cherry compote. Sometimes I wonder if we're all just yeast in some mass produced extradimensional loaf 3.25.20 Kicking back into gear, and kicking patterns in the process. Too many threads being spun, too few lines. What are we to do? I'm inclined to just break off and start somewhere entirely new, entirely my own. Is that running away, I wonder, or braving new ground. Fear, Pride, and Courage blend in this virtual limbo 3.30.20 A history teacher once told me that archeologists label anything they don't understand as 'cultic'. As quarantine folds into itself my lived experience has become cultic. Eldritch rituals ebb and flow into periods of manic productivity and restless sleep. The gears of time are stripping and teeth are breaking off 4.8.20 Responsibilities have performed necromancy on the timeline, so much to do and so little time. Today marks one lunar cycle since this logs inception. It may also mark its end. Streets strange by moonlight