Posthuman Blues

It rained intermittently all day.

I finished reading "Night" by Elie Wiesel over a double-shot of espresso. Suddenly I was very tired. I browsed at Barnes & Noble for a while -- "Filter" magazine has a good cover story on Michael Stipe. I'm fascinated by his face; everytime I see it I want to pull out a sketchbook.

Last night was largely sleepless. I'm fighting a sense of emptiness that seems to have attached itself to me and inundated my cells. Too often, the people I encounter seem like little more than mass-produced animatronics. Memories seem more substantial -- and certainly more exquisite -- than reality.

Lingering dreams of transit. Solace in anonymity. Circadian ritual. Rain-slicked rooftop parking lots. The universe bursting into fragments. Everything is under control.