Hey, get up. I want to talk about mortality’s shadow, and show business’ relationship to the Divine, and the way memory de-platonicizes the ideal.
Post-war America and the Defeat of Community; the Eschaton of the Technodigm; the decline of the independently-owned fried chicken joints.
Can authenticity even be talked about in a football stadium without laughing? Can the Grateful Dead survive as a non-corporeal corpus of work? Whither Treyvon? Whither!? Hither? Thither? Jesus, man: whither?
Answer me, young lady.
“Iss 1989. Year. Iss 1989.”
Our walk through the lot seems to have taken a weird turn.
You sure about sleeping right under the car?
Someone stole your engine.
“Iss the past. They built shit wrong now.”