![]() ![]() My brain will inevitably tell me to stare at Twitter for just long enough to see headlines that exacerbate the dread in me, and I will always take the records more suffused with paranoia, that which is louder, brasher in its fearful indulgence than the work that merely settles for a plainly anemic sadness of the moment. My tendencies, with art, just as my whole being, will always steer me towards the nearest available outlet for neuroticism. I don’t need to tell you how bad things are, or give you something akin to the FIRST REFORMED “you will live to see this” spiel. ![]() For most of this time, either harmless nineties / aughts filler material or podcasts made up the bulk of my listening, white noise to befit my own mundane environment. I brought in a nice pair of headphones to go with my MP3 player-a means of signal jamming my brain while I sort through hundreds of files for employees I’ve never met. My room sits without windows and I leave it maybe five times in an average eight-hour shift, usually to ask a question for five seconds or relieve myself in another, slightly larger windowless room. I work in a tiny cubicle in an industrial office located out in the middle of nowhere. ![]() For a month now, I’ve been playing a game of evasion. ![]()
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