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He wakes up. He sees a Dog chasing two geese. He has a Happy bus driver. Joy heartache pensive children waiting for yellow bus graduates in gowns rich unemployed people with debt gathering to commiserate. Dreams deferred. Coffee. Fresh fruit. Salad. Swelling heart. Confusion. Got to make it past forty. Hopelessness. One hour a day. One minute at a time. Disappointment. Additional failures. Squirrels. Birds. Memories. Subtext. What is the subtext. What is the text? What of the surtext? What is consistent? Something falls. Bioshock Infinite is not. Binary at best. Troubling at worst. Four old white men playing tennis together in the morning. Long time friends perhaps. What awful crimes have they committed. What terrible pact keeps them together? What secrets do they hide on fear of grim torture and drawn out death? Chinese spying on American companies. Bold hippocrisy of Eric holder is hilarious. Do what we say not what it’s revealed by secret documents we do. The only difference seems to be the actors not the acting. There is no coherence. He writes. He progresses. He is exactly where he wants to be which is exactly where he shouldn’t be allowed to go. He eats a salad. He prepares himself for the Morrow. He goes to sleep.
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