What matters is not how soon we arrive but how hard we gun it to the next red light. It doesn’t matter that the glass is shattered but that we’re squinting at the latest generation. Everyone’s nostalgic for several seasons ago. Our teenaged children are wearier than we. But this century has its accomplishments. It’s put to bed that ancient whore the johns called Progress. That this is evolution is unthinkable. We’re buckets of instincts run amok. Much as we were in bygone days, so kindly quit pretending that in another era you’d be one of the greats. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that the greatness of our age lies in its unrelenting mediocrity. Deny it and wither. But own it, sister, and you in your garden of pixels shall bloom.
Posted on: Sat, 29 Jun 2013 20:42:56 +0000
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