Marc
But even as desire tends to specialize, going silky and intimate, the force of converging markets produces an instantaneous capital that shoots across horizons at the speed of light, making for a certain furtive sameness, a planning away of particulars that affects everything from architecture to leisure time to the way people eat and sleep and dream. -- Underworld
Fargo, North Dakota
One. Talk. About a bed pulled away from a wall, revealing wadded up pieces of paper, napkins, tissues, all fouled up in some inconceivable, yet completely conceivable way. Think. About who left them there. Were they alone? Were they part of a small group? What kind of things were they doing in this city, in this hotel room, in this world? Running around. Drinking. Looking at the Fargodome, saying, Why do they need a dome? Decide. That they were doing little more than planning on how to ruin your night by soiling the room.
Two. Still in wide, open spaces, careening down roads like there was no other option. If we stop moving we die, so to speak, so we move as fast as we can at any given moment. Hold the map like a baby and add the numbers between the intersections. Pretend that they are the secret codes. Stop the nuclear detonation. Hack into the mainframe. Take money from the GOP's coffers and place it into your own. Add the numbers like there was some kind of hidden meaning behind them, when really they are just markers. From point __ to point __, it is __ miles. From point __ to point __, it is __ miles. Is this the most direct route? Is this where you want to be heading? Decide. Now.
Three. Chewing on a toothpick. Have developed the habit over the course of the last two weeks. Have stolen nearly two hundred toothpicks from restaurants up and down the Dakotas. East. West. North. South. Between the cellphones in the change tray in front of the transmission shifter thingamabobber. Mint flavored, savory sweet. After a meal -- toothpick. Thinking about something important -- toothpick. Pondering anything Cubs-related -- toothpick. A toothpick for every occassion.
Four. Tired now. Bed inviting. Must work early tomorrow so I can leave early tomorrow, so I can see people early tomorrow instead of late Friday. Things have worked themselves out nicely. Can you spell "satisfaction"?
Up Next: Don't Give Up On Me by Solomon Burke; Movie Music Vol. 1 by Braid; and, The Shape of Punk to Come by Refused.
Tomorrow: Fargo. Minneapolis. Chicago.
But even as desire tends to specialize, going silky and intimate, the force of converging markets produces an instantaneous capital that shoots across horizons at the speed of light, making for a certain furtive sameness, a planning away of particulars that affects everything from architecture to leisure time to the way people eat and sleep and dream. -- Underworld
Fargo, North Dakota
One. Talk. About a bed pulled away from a wall, revealing wadded up pieces of paper, napkins, tissues, all fouled up in some inconceivable, yet completely conceivable way. Think. About who left them there. Were they alone? Were they part of a small group? What kind of things were they doing in this city, in this hotel room, in this world? Running around. Drinking. Looking at the Fargodome, saying, Why do they need a dome? Decide. That they were doing little more than planning on how to ruin your night by soiling the room.
Two. Still in wide, open spaces, careening down roads like there was no other option. If we stop moving we die, so to speak, so we move as fast as we can at any given moment. Hold the map like a baby and add the numbers between the intersections. Pretend that they are the secret codes. Stop the nuclear detonation. Hack into the mainframe. Take money from the GOP's coffers and place it into your own. Add the numbers like there was some kind of hidden meaning behind them, when really they are just markers. From point __ to point __, it is __ miles. From point __ to point __, it is __ miles. Is this the most direct route? Is this where you want to be heading? Decide. Now.
Three. Chewing on a toothpick. Have developed the habit over the course of the last two weeks. Have stolen nearly two hundred toothpicks from restaurants up and down the Dakotas. East. West. North. South. Between the cellphones in the change tray in front of the transmission shifter thingamabobber. Mint flavored, savory sweet. After a meal -- toothpick. Thinking about something important -- toothpick. Pondering anything Cubs-related -- toothpick. A toothpick for every occassion.
Four. Tired now. Bed inviting. Must work early tomorrow so I can leave early tomorrow, so I can see people early tomorrow instead of late Friday. Things have worked themselves out nicely. Can you spell "satisfaction"?
Up Next: Don't Give Up On Me by Solomon Burke; Movie Music Vol. 1 by Braid; and, The Shape of Punk to Come by Refused.
Tomorrow: Fargo. Minneapolis. Chicago.
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