Every day, even with Newsfire, I end up with a thousand or so posts that I can never read in full. Lethargy, apathy, circumstance, the litany of excuses for not being alive - not that reading every post in a devilishly simple newsreader is life - somehow gives me that feeling, that peculiar disconnectedness, isolation, that I’ve savoured in so many train stations around the world. Tanjong Pagar, the old King’s Cross, Baltimore, Grand Central, York, Tampere (in Finland), Syracuse, dozens of open-air, identified-only-by-cyrillic-script platforms where trains could stop. At everyone, at some ungodly hour, laden with packs and books, a mind quelled and bursting, but knowing that for that short eternity between now and that time on the board, there is nothing. Nothing.
That’s for another time, though. I explain briefly the revival of del.icio.us, Pukka, Newsfire, the habit of marshalling links and devouring, consuming, waiting for the day when, like a balanced meal, there will be a cloud of tags bursting with colour, my inner leanings, and every spark that I ever knew somehow here again. Photos like only a mechanical, unseeing camera could capture, lines from scraps of plays, film, secret books and passing souls, and a symphony of knowledge, information, ideas that I have come to believe is possible with.
Be not afraid.