I’m listening to a Spotify playlist at home, in the evening after work, with a college basketball game on the TV, on mute. My song ends and for a couple of seconds, I hear my roommate’s TV in the background, the room over. And I start to sit back and think about things. I start to think about the underbelly of our society but also the foundation — the beams, the rafters, the insulation, everything. That TV fodder in the background somehow becomes to me like a method of oxidization. There’s an humility involved with taking it in, like a grounding in reality and a subsequent incentive to process it and do the right thing. Then my song comes back on. I think back to this girl coworker’s playlists in Terre Haute. It’s even worse if the songs are good — the crushing monotony of life being divided into four-minute compartments, juxtaposed adjacently and infinitely for all of eternity. I’d toyed with the idea of a music-and-comedy station that would arrange one-minute-or-so blips of standup every eight songs or so. But that’s just more wisdom and wit, more gluttony hitting Caligula for his crosseyed consumption. We’ve gone too far and we’ve got too far and my life is squalled with the malady that comes when things are too easy.
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