Working Product

I don't know what this is, and that's all I have to say about that for now.

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Somehow, I've got to start using my sleep. Every now and then, things don't clock correctly and I end up crashing instead of doing real work. What that means doesn't matter; what does is that crashing is entirely useless.

It came to me that if, instead of ignoring my body (as I have been very prone to do on many occasions) and crashing, I could set myself up to an audiobook, or the new album from Whatever-They're-Called-Today, then crashing would start to be productive and therefore, so too could I (hopefully) be.

Sounded great. Still does, when I say it to myself at night — all jacked-in before I shut down for an entirely arbitrary amount of time — it was good. It was better than good, it was brilliant.

Then I started to see information.

I started to process information when I was off (though that was the point) but it became unbearable. Even when I was working and moving and fucking and drinking there was always information: glasses with their ingredients scrolling down the side then proceeding to marquee the tale of their origins from sand, what beach they'd come from, what they remembered about the fish, if there really were giant squids after all; the book I was trying to read would tell me about the gentle strokes of the printer as it moved from one side to the next with movements so fluid that it felt like it was the water printed on its pages — some told me about the trees, while others told me how they'd at one point been a chemistry text book, way back when recycled paper did not exist, and how from there they'd been a drug store novel, some graduate student's doctorate, the fifth revision of last year's Webster's — cigarettes would regale me with the lives of tobacco farmers taking them from their families (if leafs had anything closer to blood than sap) and marauders taking the farmer's family apart then selling the leafs to an antiseptic old woman called Aunite-Kay only to be burned, reverse-sky-dive, un-reverse-sky-dive, grow again and eventually live in my chest until the next time I was retro-fitted (neo-fitted is a much better term), speaking —

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