Seen taped on local lampposts:
No one is to blame.
from the people who brought us the guerilla pamphlet
Be neither a slave nor a master.
Things I find on the street seem to be dominating my scant recent day logs. It is as though my subjective life had ceased to register as significant beyond the artifacts of other people I encounter and interact with in my sporadic expeditions out of my basement into the outside world.
I am reporting the disembodied words of complete strangers, as opposed to sharing the disembodied words of this stranger.
My mind is going, I can feel it.
I am now losing writeups from my backup brain faster than I am writing them. Soon I shall break 5000 for the second time. Soon I won't remember their being removed. It's like Time's Arrow flying backwards; as I feel myself diminishing my reflected impact lessens. I don't protest because I know that it is inevitable, someday soon perhaps my user picture priviliges being revoked celebrating entry into adulthood and ultimately disappearing in birth.
Online community is feeling more like a chain than a glory; if I make a large enough mark here, seen by enough people around the world I have no need to disengage from my chair and actually effect that world I can touch.
I plant the seed of the writeup; it is submitted when the shoots break the dirt. Exposed to the light of public scrutiny it doesn't grow bigger but denser.
in our last episode... | p_i-logs | and then, all of a sudden...