Musings of a party worm

Ten years. A decade of tearing through the scrolls, the illuminated manuscripts, the half-rotted codices—not for tenure, but for technology. The old kind.

Crystal deep dark light

Benedict sings in the rafters

Tailspin, refracted

Such was the days of VHS, when DVD players were the mythic possessions of the pseudo-rich, and not so plentiful were compact discs. I miss the ways that we would gather together for our special Sunday evenings, and how much I feared the Monday roundabout turnaround.