Monday morning flip flops to work. It might be a bit cold, but it’s 9a and I can still feel my toes, so I think the timing is right. Not everyone can do this where I work. I’m not sure why I can. I’m wearing today what I would have worn yesterday. I guess I’m unintentionally living by Thoreau’s wisdom:

“Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.”

That I can do it without issue is interesting to me.

This work environment is unchanging. I’m standing at a desk now, comfortably. It’s a bit too warm but the windows are rattling from the wind and I know if I crack one open it’ll twist papers all over the room. The AC probably hasn’t been turned on for the building yet so unseasonably warm days are just endured.

Besides, I can always go outside or somewhere else. That option should remain in all circumstances, always, shouldn’t it?

The new Meshuggah record is outstandingly heavy and flawless.

There is no more art, there is no more culture in this city. It’s all consumer garbage. Commercial music, commercial pictures, consumer souls. The people making it don’t even know why or how because they’re not supposed to look at what operates on them. They’re supposed to make things that fit in, just like they try to make themselves fit in. But fit in to what? What is that thing? They tell themselves it’s a “Remix 2.0!”. No, fuckhead.

Just, no.