In Zürich.

Ok, so dead flies is dead. It wasn’t “the people” who killed it, much the way it wasn’t really “the people” who killed typewriters or good taste; they just got replaced by cooler things like computers and MTV, and left with their heads hanging.
Ok ok, so I admit it, the fact is dead flies died because I killed it. But I have an excuse, which is that recently, my life has been reduced to sitting at home with my shirt off, either working on my thesis paper, or watching TV while drinking liters of “high C” orange juice, only to use the empty cartons as projectiles to hit the channel change or volume adjust buttons. While engaged in such deliciously duotonous (as in, paradoxically, two times monotonous) activity, I would sometimes drift and slumber, and before I would wake myself with my own hideous first snore, I would dream of those times when my blog got tons of visitors, with enough third-party comments to actually bathe me in the illusion that people were actually, God knows why, taking their time to read my absolutely random rantings. So in this second before the snore, I made up my mind, however childish and insignificant it seemed, to strike a blow towards whatever my blog represents by again blogging something. And while this post seems to demonstrate that you actually CAN make something out of nothing much, it also demonstrates that that something then, due to the infinite justice at work in the world, actually ends up adding up to nothing much.