It's Walpurgisnacht in the suburbs, and Spring has begun.

Even now the pressure builds, as cars pulse through veins of an invented past, veins plaqued with stucco and neon. Subdivision dreams echoing with the heartbeats of combustion and uncertain heat. The wheels turn just as they've done before. Even the invisible is something to see these days. In keeping with the ancient spiritual practices of my people, I bought a couch. A red one.

The idea of a piece of furniture being both A)new and B)something that didn't come in a box that I bought from a bigger box is fundamentally untrustworthy. Couches are things to passed down through families like china and genetic defects. This may be in violation of some sort of law. I refuse to sit on it for another day or two in case it turns into stone or a Jehovah's Witness or something of the sort. The cats like it, but you can't be too careful.

This place is empty. This apartment, this street, this town. The buildings went up quick enough that ground has not yet acquired the deep ground-in funk of human occupation. St. Peters sits just outside the event horizon of St. Louis, maintaining a slow and stable orbit through the sea of days. It is kept from the void by webs of steel and habit, wispy thin to the insomniac eyes of the satellites. It is not the emptiness of wilderness and solitude, nor the oblivion of a fast city gone slow. When everything is right it is like that split second before someone speaks, all blank paper and possibility. A girl I know can conjure that feeling with her laughter. You can get a lot done if you can adapt to the environment, and I'm nothing if not a skilled opportunist.

I look forward to doing more of my own work this year, and seeing Hero's Journey to a good place. I'm getting a little tired of machines, and am going to try and improve my skills drawing the figure and face. We'll see how that goes though.

Edit: Damn what a load of gibberish. I should sleep.