Dropping back into the fold after some indeterminate distance of time and space - time and space needed for contemplating the ceiling from the vantage point of carpet (the whole ordeal requiring an unheard of - and frankly obscene - amount of destruction and reconstruction to cut a hole in the living room floor of the world, and then to construct a sub-flooring deep enough to bring the surface of my eyeballs (while laying on my back) to the level of the top of the strands of carpet that make up the floor covering on the aforementioned living room floor of the world. Happy to report that there is nothing new on - or in fact under - the ceiling.

 

Also inside: Robocop, homelessness in better climates than this, guilt, shame, mousetraps - metaphorical and literal, suicide, David Foster Wallace, Chip 'n Dales Rescue Rangers and the disillusioned sense of the singular value of a life lived under the iron-fist rule of a fiat currency, more shame, questioning the motives of The Self, and Public Art = Shit.