Sublime

Rythm [sic] Syndicate.

Every place, every name, became part of an ever-expanding filter. Then, every morning, I went through everything I could get my hands on—long ropes of news, starling flocks of status updates, the confetti of stock prices—looking for familiar faces.

It may sound like I’m taking all this a little too personally, but I’m a songwriter who is engaged, at this very moment, in the process of songwriting. It’s a blood and guts business, here at my desk, that requires something of me to initiate the new and fresh idea. It requires my humanness. What that new idea is, I don’t know, but it is out there

“The only free man,” he would say, “is one who doesn’t work for anyone else.” In later years, that became his thing, expounding on the tragedy of modern science fictional man: the desk job. The workweek was a structure, a grid, a matrix that held him in place, a path through time, the shortest distance between birth and death.