Fiction Is An Illusion Wrought

For Me, The Melancholy Of The Late Xxth Century Is Walking Late At Night By The Mont Blanc Pen Store And Seeing These Things Always Strike Me As Simulacra Of Luxury Items. They Seem Like Fakes.

If You Make Something, It's An Artifact. It's Something That Somebody Or Some Corporate Entity Has Caused To Come Into Being. A Great Many Human Beings Have Thought About Each Of The Artifacts That Surround Us. Different Degrees Of Intelligence And Attention Have Been Brought To Bear On Anything.

It's Impossible To Move, To Live, To Operate At Any Level Without Leaving Traces, Bits, Seemingly Meaningless Fragments Of Personal Information.

If I Meet Someone And Discover That They're An Absolute, Very Earnest Nationalist, It's Unlikely That I'm Going To Get Much Closer To Them. I Don't Understand Them. It Doesn't Matter Where They're From, I Just Don't Get It. I'm A Multi-national Kind Of Guy.

All We Really Have When We Pretend To Write About The Future Is The Moment In Which We Are Writing. That's Why Every Imagined Future Obsoletes Like An Ice Cream Melting On The Way Back From The Corner Store.