I've never embraced the reflex to sheath one's smartphone in hideous, orthopedic-looking defensive garb. I'd rather let my handset take its licks and assume the marks of ownership than squeeze it into the consumer-electronics equivalent of a scoliosis brace. That said, the purported promise of Griffin Technology's Clarifi to marginally rectify the iPhone's egregious photo optics makes me curious about the case, its accursed protectiveness (seriously, it makes the device look like it's wearing kneepads) notwithstanding. I guess I'll keep an eye out for the reviews.
You cut your hair, the delivery guy observed. Preparing for the Republicans, I snarked lazily. You think they're gonna pull it off? he asked. At this point I hope not, is all I could offer.
Hoping for something not to happen tends to be the opposite of being hopeful.
Traveling this and that way; having new conversations with old acquaintances; old conversations with new acquaintances; cold conversations somewhere in between; skimming the surface of sleep, skipping across it like a deranged pebble; that certain crook in the elbow of the year, late beginnings as the months stretch homeward: everything conspires to disorient my spatial reasoning and abstract my perception of time. The recent past turns to legend and the very people and places I visited only yesterday or the day before become primitives in some personal mythology, shadows animated by ancient fire, rumor and myth withdrawn to remote outposts of memory. The details are intimate on a cosmic scale. I've never felt less innocent or been more naïve.