Closest I’ve come in four years to smoking a cigarette sometime this morning—a pretty blue pack of Dunhills. Bought a cup of coffee and put on ‘HEROES’ instead. Waking up late has her advantages: no time to fuck everything up. Almost left the house wearing an orange flannel, jeans, and a fat brown tie with sailboats on it. Came to my senses somewhere in the closet holding a flashlight and grinning like a maniac. Besides, I couldn’t even begin to get the top button to button and so it’s yesterday’s checkered thing. Realized somewhere in the 90s I reek of Tiger Balm off-brand as my shoulder gives out on the pole. I’ll mention my hair anecdotally: our commute of horrifying hair monsters. The rest of everything is a blur but I know it was Blackout that brought the reality of morning into plain view: weather’s grim, I’m suffocating….stomping screaming….if you don’t stay tonight I will take that plane tonight….nothing to lose nothing to gain etc. etc.

edit: 

Spilling coffee every third step
Dreams about people you’ve only met twice
Hurried lectures ten minutes short
Moss Garden 
Impending silent stretch
Jenny Holzer retweets 

rocketsandrayguns:

hangingfire:

My latest for Tor.com, for their Bowie Week series.

Caught in the grip of rising future-shock, a state that William Gibson will later observe is a near-permanent condition of the early twenty-first century, Bowie doesn’t so much sing here as he screams, howls, chants, growls, and croons. 

“Look Good in Ruins (or: Twenty-five Tangents about Bowie in ‘Berlin’).” (via marathonpacks)

This is awesome.