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Sometimes I think about, if given the option, boarding a near-light-speed space craft and taking a tour of the solar system.

I'd come back to earth and the face of the world would be unrecognizable. Everyone I know would be dead and gone. A week for me would be a lifetime for the earth.

Maybe I wouldn't like the way things turned out while I was gone. I could refuel, board my ship, and maybe take a whole year or so to tour a nearby star. At 0.99998c that would put the date of my return at about 4000AD I think.
Tonight was a weird sort of quiet celebration for me. Being dead-tired but playing board games with friends instead of sleeping is pretty great. I think I'd almost always choose board game over sleep. Unless it's Settlers of Catan, I dunno if I can stomach that game anymore.

Things to be celebratory about:

I'm becoming an increasingly expert flying insect assassin.

I'm one month away from being out of debt.

I'm working a job at which I'm actually paid to do things I'm good at.

I have half of a libretto, the music for which I have aching fathoms.

I have like pages and pages of half gibberish that I've been slowly condensing into an abstract theory of algorithmic and recursive music generation?

Another less developed theory on the nature of melody: structurally, functionally, psychologically to some degree.


I really like... two kinds of activities? Ones where my brain is a knife slicing and dicing and ones where said slicing and dicing becomes completely irrelevant.
"I will put Chaos into fourteen lines
And keep him there; and let him thence escape
If he be lucky; let him twist, and ape
Flood, fire, and demon --- his adroit designs
Will strain to nothing in the strict confines
Of this sweet order, where, in pious rape,
I hold his essence and amorphous shape,
Till he with Order mingles and combines.
Past are the hours, the years of our duress,
His arrogance, our awful servitude:
I have him. He is nothing more nor less
Than something simple not yet understood;
I shall not even force him to confess;
Or answer. I will only make him good. "

Slowly -/ov/y.

I guess I always assumed it would be a slow gradual progression.

It's much more like the oscillating spiral decent of a crashing helicopter.

Not to say it's all bad. It's just the motion is wild.
Unpredictable tolling: the death knell of youth.
Emptying, removal, purging the infection. You feel like you've issued forth all the disgusting contents already, but it just keeps coming out. The anger is misguided really, because it's no one's fault. It mostly just sucks... a lot. It is just one more way that I've turned inside out and back again, shaking loose years of detritus. I really should have higher standards.

Out of it.

Accommodated without pretense in a wonderful person's personal space, I slept soundly. While I was slipping in and out of dream, they talked in their sleep and the smeared line of reality seemed to stretch on and on. I wonder if it's this obvious sometimes or I'm just getting ahead of myself. People resonate sometimes, I think. I'm wary though, because in the past I've been quite mistaken about this sort of thing.

For a while now, I really may have been too deeply inebriated by my own attempts at objective empathy: trying to love the things I hate and allowing myself to hate the things I truly love.

We all get to choose what game we're playing, I guess.