It may be that Tao Lin's writing is acting as a mirror of my own neuroses and independence and thrusting me into a newly extreme comfort with my own isolationism. I've slipped into this sublime happiness, headphones on, running minor and mostly unimportant errands and then stopping to eat and read more Tao Lin, or drink tea and read more Tao Lin.
Sometimes I feel like my here-friends and I have drained one another of the interesting things. Like we know enough from one another so we just kind of drift around each other like shells of once interesting people. Like balloons with mild gravity. Or static. I find myself more comfortable exploring the bounds of my own mind. It's just a feeling.
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