one of the greatest days. In the penthouse of the Commodore in Dayton, in the corner room with open windows, with my friends, inhaling the storm and going out for more cigarettes, talk of endless and forgotten importance, one cut of a Dayton collage, almost everything else that happened paling in comparison.
The end of an era. Well had.
Harassing our waiter at the Pita Pit.
Buying the Christmas tree.
People that I’ve left behind. Don’t you wish that you had a voice?
In that sense in which history is written by the victor, how are you enjoying life as a mute? Does it suit you, playing for the losing team? Are you glad you’ve been forgotten? Do you think I’ll go to hell for having something less than sympathy for the average path? I don’t believe in hell. But if I go there it will surpass the anonymous, the typical, the simply fraternal, to which you tightly cling.
John Mayer and Fiona Apple have substance, but what are they without their style? Wittgenstein and Foucault are stylish, no doubt, even though they are normally revered for that other quality.
What you love. If you don’t love much, then what are you? Like it has been said Nabokov writes prose, the only way to be is…ecstatically!
is as important to technology as science.
and our family went on long car trips, I would read the GW-BASIC manuals from cover to cover, so that I would know every function and every feature of the language.