Bastille Day. Forgotten, like Independence day last week.
Perhaps somewhere a loans officer goes to a French restaurant with friends but there is no thought of the origin.
Our origins are obscured. Meanings not sought for. Explanations accepted glibly.
No questions are being asked.
The commemorations are replaced with multiplied rock concerts by manufactured pop stars.
The real stars languish in hospital beds and play to empty rooms.
I toy with xsl again. Some beauty in it I cannot reach. But I return every year to its charms and try something new., Today I try to translate a postgresql to a mysql export format.
I watch Watchmen again. Hungry. I keep spending money on shopping but have no food to show but soups.
S texts and I say everything but the one thing I want to say. Relationships meaningless unless there is a physical side.
Perhaps I don't say it because out loud it sounds selfish, sleazy, but I should not think like that. It's true. We've outlasted, or perhaps established, what's the difference, the intellectual relationship. We need to fuck or fuck off.

And later a nurse rings an accountant to settle some drug debts. Figures are passed back and forth, haggled over, and a final nett amount is agreed upon.
The accountant hangs up, pops a quarter xanax and watches Watchmen. And ponders the irony of thinking he was once someone who would affect things in the world. As if change is affected by the xanax popping, cubicle dwelling, opiate addicted people pleasers.
Or is it? For who else changes things in this world?
First we take Manhattan....