Soundtrack for this column:



Imagine: You're in bed, your body is physically oriented therein. Perhaps, in this imagined instance of some compressed alternate reality, submerged within a greater reality, itself likely lesser than some even greater part of something greater still, perhaps the weather is...cold.

So the blankets are up to your neck, and the coarse patchwork of hair representing generations of damaged genetics covering what you sometimes recognize as something that used to be the face of somebody you might have known at some time other than some time before now and, to this date, thereafter (so far)..you're cold, despite the beard. That's what I'm trying to say.

Ding, ding.

You've got mail. E-mail, that is (electronic mail, it's made from science). This lucky e-mail is from Chevrolet. Your car successfully forwarded a full record of the day's vehicular activity. This is worth sharing with close friends, family, and anybody else you can manipulate into orbiting the virtual galaxy of your psychology.

Car successfully communicated with internet. I think i like this sort of thing.

Envision: Sunrise. pastel pink stained concrete driveway, desert landscaping, purple mountain silhouette backdrop. Car. This is the car that is talking to the internet.

The air rests as a mountain, rooted in your lungs; your relaxed exhalations eruptions silencing the silence. The dryness burns your nostrils as your body sucks in the gravity of the isolation of your existence as some configuration of chemicals on or near some other configuration of chemicals, and so on for a long time not really worth describing in this little paragraph..

The tiny lights in the sky begin to shine, first the planets, then the galaxies. Configurations of chemicals, you know.

So you're cold, your car is talking to you, and stars are configurations of chemicals. What does it matter? Maybe it's just natural for cars to talk to the internet. Maybe that's just how things worked out in the universe. Who are you to judge?

Everything is okay, you think to yourself. You have a diligent car, a beautiful sky, and some feelings by which to feel things.

Ding, diiing.

Look at your phone.

Look at it.

Don't read any further until you look at your phone. If you don't have a phone, go look at somebody else's phone.

Our minds reach out like inch worms at the tips of branches, as the fumbling tendrils of some migrant vine, tenderly groping around overhead, in the dark, wearing boxing gloves, a blindfold, and three white socks (use your imagination), seeking the faintest hint of even the tiniest bit of whatever it is that any of us might have ever had the slightest inclination to experience.

Ding, ding.