Posthuman Blues

Last evening: slept, awoke surprisingly refreshed, and marched to the cofeeshop. Empty, silent streets.

Yesterday's snow is a grimy, cytoplasmic slush that threatens to freeze into a deadly lacquer. This morning: cars spinning in the relatively pristine layer of snow like deranged beetles, shedding curtains of white accumulation. Tuna salad sandwich for lunch (I'm a vegetarian but occasionally make exceptions for seafood) with bar-be-que potato chips and an unwanted Dr. Pepper. Almost bought Nick Pope's "Open Skies, Closed Minds," but, looking through it, I don't think there's anything new to learn (although I could be wrong).

No UFO UpDates so far today. The Cydonia mailing list is remarkably quiet. The Columbia disaster had it cranking out messages, but there isn't much left to say. Even vapid conspiracy theories have outlived their welcome. War fever hangs over the information landscape like portentous cloud.