Everyone is isolated from everyone else. The concept of society is like a cushion to protect us from the knowledge of that isolation. A fiction that serves as an anesthetic.
Because we don’t know when we will die, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, an afternoon that is so deeply a part of your being that you can’t even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four, five times more, perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps 20. And yet it all seems limitless.
I have a problem with perfection. I don’t think perfection is very artful.
Went to SF this week, went to Bob’s Donuts (the song in Fryerstarter) and it was incredible. Asked the guy at the counter about the track, he gave me some of the donuts from it. Said Aes was a common face. Scooped this record at Amoeba too, bumping now.