the short memory of humans

a scattered lament for our species

My friend Tim has been texting me photos from his holiday in Romania where, for the purposes of rest and relaxation, he’s been touring the industrial remnants of Ceausescu’s deranged vanity projects. Everyone should have at least one friend like Tim in my opinion. The sort of friend who, if you burst into tears over the fact that it’s been raining forever and the days are getting shorter, wouldn’t accuse you of being negative and hormonal but instead deftly change the subject to late David Bowie trivia. Or genocide.

First thing this morning, Tim sends me a strange picture. It’s of a rusted out bunk bed with a filth rag mattress in a crumbling gulag-style cell and the accompanying text reads: