Okay.
Let’s put it all in a big pile on the table and sort it out:
- Does it spark joy or indigestion?
- Does it serve me or is it the next robot overlord?
- Does it have meaning or does it have tentacles?
- Does it have value or is it an actual pile of dog shit? Why would you put dog shit on the table? Come on. What the fuck.
This is ridiculous. It’s way too much. It will take forever. Let’s start over.
Start fresh, start clean.
Let’s put it all in a box under the table.
We can use it as a footrest while we eat chips and salsa and listen to music and get high. Let’s talk about books and dreams and important things and total bullshit. Let’s sit in an awkwardly comfortable silence now and then. When it gets dark and chilly we can burn the box to stay warm. We won’t need whatever’s in it—by then we’ll have new stuff on the table.