Hey folks. What do you do when the Universe breaks your French Press — not once, not twice, but thrice, the last time dramatically spiderwebbed with cracks? (OK, not that dramatic... sort of like the "terrible" burn you've got, so unsatisfied to all the lookers-on.) Well, obviously, you immortalize the glassy thing in equally-dramatic photos, which you promptly forget about. Then, you give the piece the equivalent of a delayed cremation (Oh, the wonders of recycling!)

Then, weeks later, you record your late grandmother's out-of-tune piano and sample it for an experimental piece in A=447.6 Hz, whose vibratory nexus the Cosmos has apparently consecrated for said experimentation purposes. (Don't forget to put the bass part in B♭ Kirnberger tuning.) Ignore 95% of the material recorded and chop up a few small samples to create the bulk of the ambience and harmonic material by tuning multiple copies of the chops to different pure intervals (Pythagorean-wise.)

Yeah, I don't know, then record some keyboard percussion, some ambling synth solo over the back half of the collage, and get way too perfectionistic tweaking the balance of your chimeric manifestation of chance (ain' no such thing as coincidence, young feller... some cackling farmer drawls in your mind.) Done? OK, auto-algorithm master the thing, and make the damn video already. No one cares about music, you've gotta SEE to believe. ('ts tha exact oppersite if ya pay closer attention... [wide-eyed] I am staring at myself intensely in the weird reflection of this conjured personage dark with tobacco stains and sunken eyes. That ghastly grin.)

Exhume your old French Press, and learn Final Cut Pro, already. You know iMovie is complete trash (That ghastly grin widening and weird starfunnels erupting from jaundiced phalanges.) Shake off the hallucinations. Take a break and read some Philip K. Dick. Unnerving entertainment, created in a mind of well-balanced integration and derangement. A quote from VALIS lodges in the itinerant consciousness: "The Mind is not talking to us but by means of us. Its narrative passes through us and its sorrow infuses us irrationally. As Plato discerned, there is a streak of the irrational in the World Soul.*" You smile.

Quit getting distracted. Stare into that soulless expanse of pixels, over and again. Keep coherence somehow, that word just on the other side of recall slipping, always slipping. Work wordless, then—whatever amateurish visual transformations you can conjure: in the wrong dimensions. For God's Sake. They'll have to be cropped. Nearly a third of the goodness gone. It figures. What was it they said about Murphy? (a harsh disembodied guffaw) Anyhow, forget Ken Burns and his techniques, insofar as you can forget that which you never knew. Just get as close as you can, effects-in-a-box: heat waves, TV static, ripples, and whatnot. Chop those dadgum images up, make it something.

Name it a thing... "The Universe's Screw Loose." Yeah, that'll do. A sense of the mechanism, but it's slightly faulty. Just like the Vast Active Living Intelligence System told good ol' Horselover Fat in that pink-light-itchthys-transmission back in the day. [The Empire Never Ended.] You've gotta just post the thing on YouTube, show the bigwigs with flawless suits and bad breath whatcha got. (Scotch just pouring, pouring.... turning into silver popcorn. The farmer is aging backwards, drowning in his barn filling up with maize, but it's the wrong color: God didn't make emerald tortillas.)

That's enough. Just forget it. A while later, muster your courage and write some convoluted tutorial on blockchain. It's uncomfortable, but everyone has a calling. You've got to give of yourself before this world takes everything you have, anyway. Everybody ought to know the only logical thing to do with a broken french press, and you're the only one that can tell them. (Says the farmer, as he flicks his cigarette into dry hay and walks towards the creek, not looking back. Echoes of that hideous laughter, and those voidful eyes superimposed on your physical vision. Ain' no such thang as the Universe havin' no screw loose, young feller...)