the pudgy capitalist slave stirs in the early morning, nervously twitching and itching to unveil his prized machine. the machine that he toiled for in his past. the machine he is so outwardly proud of yet generates no inward satisfaction. the snow falls like rain on this morning. his machine is primed to the best of its half-assed manufactured ability. and all it does is drag him and constrain him. it sloshes the snow around like water in a bath tub. and he doesn't have to put his back into it. the putt and couch of black smoke contaminates the perfectly cold air . but he still sees the value in using a shovel. his now 9-o-clock shadow beginning to show, a patch of snow like a bird's nest on his head. maybe he'll stop and look. watch the rain fall slightly slower, slightly colder than he's used to. watch a particle stop moving as it grabs hold to the fresh coat beneath it. listen to his child in her bewilderment, playing in endless devotion with the snow and space around her. maybe he'll turn the machine off. to give it a moment's rest, allow it to feel the warmth of the cold around it, allow the air to be still in its audible vibrations and dissipate the foul stench that has hung low around it.
And when he gives up the sky will cover it all again. a blank slate, another take, to do what he must.
made some burritos this morning with jasso and gavin and ben, nick came over too then we went kiteboarding on briggs. not too much success.