I was driving on I-45 in downtown Houston the other day and I signaled to make a lane change; it made me feel like such a chump. My Austin friends might not understand this.

In my dream I'm Jon Anderson, turquoise and magenta track suit, new white sneakers, power walking through Paris in the rain with Vangelis, taking a break from recording Friends of Mr. Cairo. He stops, reeking of cigars and wet velvet, and says ENOUGH JON, WE RETURN TO THE STUDIO NOW.

I wish Beverly Cleary had written a book about Ancient Rome

perceive my seraphic calm, an affective display of existential black noise, perfectly translucent until it occludes the administrative chaos behind it and projects the illusion of me screaming obscenities at a physician's assistant; that is not happening actually, and is is-not-happening affectively

My feed is all pictures of galaxies, which is nice, but hoping I can narrow down my interests a little. For scale: I also like magazines!