On Walking

Walking is life-logging. Flâneurs who write books do not aim for the algorithmic beauty of status games. They merely find beauteous solace in story-telling. Tell a story if you cannot walk. Tell several stories when you are walking. Either in reality or as tethered to a mental modality. Of Walking.

I’ve been awake since the last 36 hours, and am not meaning to sleep yet. If you cannot walk the Asia Minor Roman lanes, you just go outside to buy a print-bound connoisseur mag. I went outside to buy one called Cornucopia. I heard the cornerstore buffet (we call them büfe) are not receiving any more issues.

Since I could not find a copy of the mag in which there are photographs of Anatolian Rome, I now have to either keep myself busy with preconfirmations research or go serene by reading either on pre-Socratics—some sciences are just long-time gossip networks or humour during Roman times.

No, I have already tidied up the house, done my first half-deep cleaning of the week, wasted at least 4 hours across some layer 2 dissolutions. If you feel like this, and if you are also stuck in a rather immobile metropolis, you dream of flying.

I’ll just write about flying tomorrow.