Brooding
It is weird when you feel normal sights to brood with an unnameable terror. A smirk, or a construction barricade, or a passing flash of the Chinese language, for some unknown reason, are soaked with some unknown significance. The meaning is in the subtext, and you can’t crack it, and you know the mood will pass, but if you sit in it and bear it you might crack open some truth. It’s probably the collision of disparate things: the age of virality, an afternoon with a YouTuber now likely napping, the unimaginable leverage of AI, being 34, guilt over disappearing from Notes, the chaos of Manhattan, the week of grieving, the sushi order—they all come together into an unnameable roar. And now you don’t have a dollar to spare to two consecutive homeless people because you’ve actually lost your wallet, but you also didn’t even look up because you see some abstract benefit of logging this moment in case your unborn grandchildren see the value in your passing shapeless thoughts.