time being a form of expression, a form of economics, a form of living life that is up for experimentation and articulation.

 what's with who ever is calling my phone, our phones? From a land line, not leaving a message. I call back and it's a machine that automatically hangs up before it even rings. Is it some new computer robot thingy that's gathering clicks by somehow utilizing this antiquated system to gain some new imaginary tradable value? 5 different numbers, all are area coded, 09 or 04 or 03. They look so cute, land lines, like audible people, in short suitable numbers. What is it with cell numbers being significantly too long to remember, or care for. Made a machine for that shit eh, already. I miss answering machines, digital ones, not the tape ones they were a fucking night mare, no they weren't they were fine, but recorded and accessible home machine that you pressed a button and listened to, that would turn on when you were home and you could listen to someone leaving a message, and decide then if you wanted to talk to them or not. There was something so magisterial about that, regal, proper, polite and civilized, but gangster too, so rarely privileging both parties. Messages for a brief moment, were an art. Then died. Why was that, why was the material so thin for that format. Surly it could have gone on for ever? Where was the improvement, technology rammed roaded me through with. Like a bypass raping a hill, imagine if the road had to respect the hills existence, and actually show it. What kind of travel would that be, the mindset alone needed for the shift to exist, the sense of time, more than money, time being a form of expression, a form of economics, a form of living life that is up for experimentation and articulation. A belief in a practice, of love, for ones self and ones experience of the possibility of others love. A message on a machine left, with the hope of a call back, with interest. No guarantee of profit, just a punt on a moon light ridge, across from a down and out alley way of yesterdays dreams. Lit like tissue paper. I'm waiting for a call. Who the fuck from? Everybody. Who's not waiting for a call, really.