something melancholic about discovering music that would’ve been hot five years ago likea postcard lost in the mail, the message’s impact decreased w time. It’s 2014 now so a luddite’s cause is futile, but I keep going to bed at night with this aversion towards the internet I ingest so much of it and then I vomit I think I vomit into a small bathroom trash bin in which I can coat the walls but instead it is off of a balcony. A wider audience perhaps but all that I’ve emitted is now fractions of splatters Thew indows feel no impact the bricks feel no impact The wind feels no impact The sidewalk feels no impact. Is this narcissism, expecting an explosion to be heard, is this entitlement? I look at my wood panel floor with patience the width of my eyelash and at my static glowing screen for minutes at a time, zoning out on it’s possibilities