I went riding, foraging for dinner amid the early evening throng. I’ve been reading Spengler, looking for the answers, but the world’s changing so fast the arguments are all blurred and in flux. I should read further but every book I pick up seems to describe a moment that’s already spun away into a half-remembered, stylized past. I must read – and write – faster, race to keep up. Or quit the sprint completely, give up on the terrifying nowness detail of data world, return to daydreaming and wondering and losing myself in stories and fleeting, magical glimpses of the shy sublime.
