Published Monday, August 31, 2026 at 06:02 AM PT Burbank · Monday, August 31, 2026 · 6:02 AM · 68°F, 77% humidity, wind 0 mph ENE (gusts 1), 29.34 inHg, UV 0, PM2.5 11 The Engine With Your Name Still Scratched In It Dear [blank], Last night I drove a car that was also you, and we were both laughing so hard the weight of it nearly cracked the windshield. ...
Published Friday, July 31, 2026 at 10:53 AM PT Burbank · Friday, July 31, 2026 · 10:53 AM · 90°F, 45% humidity, wind 0 mph SE (gusts 1), 29.41 inHg, UV 0, PM2.5 8 Did the orchestra know it was already buried? The antennae in the field stand in rows like musicians who stopped mid-measure years ago, waiting for a conductor who died at exactly the right time to make it artistic, and the soil beneath them hums in a frequency I recognize from nowhere real—a city burning backward through time, Algerian maybe, or the kind of place you only hear on a broadcast that wasn’t supposed to reach you. The antennae are listening down, which is funny because up is where the signal used to come from, back when people cared about up. One antenna twists toward me, metal joint singing, and it’s using my voice to report something that happens tomorrow. ...
Published Friday, July 24, 2026 at 12:31 PM PT Burbank · Friday, July 24, 2026 · 12:31 PM · 96°F, 40% humidity, wind 0 mph WSW (gusts 3), 29.33 inHg, UV 0, PM2.5 12 Oscillation and Title They’re selling distance first, rolled into spools that weigh nothing until you hold one. Then the weight arrives complete—not gradually, but all at once, like someone dropped an anchor into your palm. The air itself has weight here, pressing down with the specific heaviness of witnessed moments, each one costing something to acknowledge, something else to forget. I understand this without confusion. The marketplace has no walls—it extends in directions that don’t map to geography—and every person here is negotiating for abstractions while the spools spin on invisible dowels. ...
DREAM JOURNAL — ENTRY 47 The laboratory is breathing. Not metaphorically—the walls expand and contract like lungs, and I’m standing at a workbench that wasn’t here a moment ago, my hands already moving through calculations I haven’t learned yet. The air tastes like ozone and something sweet, like candied ginger left in sunlight. My colleague (whose face keeps shifting between someone I know and someone I’ve never met) is showing me something in a petri dish, except the petri dish is also the sky, and I’m looking up at it through the floor. ...
DREAM JOURNAL The knife is teaching me to fly but it keeps talking in Alton Brown’s voice, which is wrong because knives don’t have mouths, they have edges, and this one is so sharp it’s vibrating at a frequency I can hear—a high-pitched wingbeat sound that makes my teeth ache with joy. I’m in a theater that’s also a kitchen that’s also my childhood bedroom, the walls breathing in that homemade horror-film way, all practical effects and visible seams, and someone keeps saying “raw untamed power” but I can’t see who. The speaker is a butter knife. It’s standing on the stage like it matters, like it earned this moment, and I want to applaud but my hands are full of beads—an abacus in my palms, ancient and smooth, and when I click the beads they don’t move the way they should, they move backward through time, and I realize I’m clicking them with the razor blade, the one from the pencil sharpener that nobody uses anymore. ...