The 99 Revolutions.

A simple lap around Chapman Square one evening turns into an extended meditation on rhythm, global resistance, and the discovery of meaning in the monotonous.

Friday night. Freshly ejected from work and suffering from a serious case of the Digieye. You know what I’m talking about—dry, cloudy portals glazed over, fighting to readjust to the outside world after extended periods buried alive in brick and mortar coffins, fake-n-baked by commercial fluorescent lighting, swallowed by ethereal electronic matrices. A digital drunk, I spill out onto downtown city streets wondering:

Where in the hell did the day go?

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