You want. And want. And want. It’s all yearning and desire and ennui and goddamn it I wish I could do more. Didn’t I write about spindlefingers?

No, that’s not right. It’s never right. It’s an attempt, a series of attempts. Aborted attempts. Not a safe topic. Not something to talk about. Write about. We’re not in a safe place. Increasingly not a safe country. Was any of this really possible? But it happened and we weren’t dreaming.

I keep coming back to this memory I have of Blitz, taking about a near future of indentured servitude of credit and how he must feel silly that it didn’t come to pass. But what is passing is far worse.

And I want to write that none of it matters. None of it has mattered, nothing has really changed. Not for us at least. We’ve been lucky riding the coat tails of privilege that never belonged to us. We’ve been passing.