This webpage has lots of handwritten text inside pictures, so here’s my best attempt at a transcription for those who need it. Some liberties were taken with punctuation and casing to hopefully make it more screen-reader friendly. Words that didn’t have a clear transcription were left as [illegible]:

Consider this apple

We experience time for this apple in three dimensions.

We can travel to any point on this apple as we trace it.

Much in the same way, we experience life in four dimensions, because time is the fourth dimension.

The book has already been written; it’s just that because we are in it, living the story, we can’t observe it all at once.

[All capital letters] How would it feel, then, to experience something in four dimensions as a benevolent interdimensional alien stranger?

There’s talk of a Strange Feeling.

This Strange Feeling lingers on city streets, around intersections, areas of past busy activity.

The Strange Feeling frequents these places, now so haunted by phantoms of ideas, nations of a pre-epidemic world.

Of course, excuse me–there have been pandemics before–pardon my [21st-century-centeredness, written to exaggerate the word’s pretentiousness]-- I don’t mean to narrow our scope.

Ah, let me return to the story–so this Strange Feeling longed to be put into words (remaining an intangible amorphous Feeling wasn’t enough), so that it could feel like part of the comprehensible human world.

And so it targeted unassuming passerby, pedestrians on [all caps] their mandated daily [end caps] Walk Around The Block ™ possessing their bodies to feel out the edges of its being.

Kind of going through and identity/existential crisis now. Talking to M has me seriously thinking about what exactly it is that I want to do.

[caption of an image] A couple in the distance. They seem like they’re in love, in the thirty years and still holding hands in line kind of way

Graphic design seems to thrive on disaster capitalism–how even much in poor taste it may be to sell overpriced masks to realize the dystopic covid-times toxic wasteland atmosphere, I feel like having a job where I can actually apply my skills feels better–or maybe less hollow, less empty–than sitting on the sidelines, jobless.

For a while I thought maybe I can go into criticism–because at times, yes; I do have something to say–but is this my place to take up space? It all feels so futile, so pointless

I really don’t know much about “the outside world,” about society; sitting here freaking out, similarly feels helpless.

I wish I could be more secure in myself but [illegible] am I not enough already?

Maybe I should seek the art [illegible] library and [illegible] oh god, maybe becoming an [illegible] could be a way out, a kind of [illegible] where escapism is my job?

Entertainment, maybe? An animated series?

But it’s like… How can I survive and better yet live of of something that I can turn off when I go home?

Maybe what I need to do is figure out, tidy up, clean away a space for me, in my apartment, in my mind and in my heart

But the familiar [illegible] smallness of childhood games stares me down

So certain, so plesant, so easy and simple. God I wish I could worry about these things on an [illegible] all the way, to make it productive so I could survive off of something? What even

Sometimes I wonder whether consumption (purchasing things, that is) has taken over too much of “who I am”.

Have I begun to worship objects too much?

For a time I felt that divorcing myself from the ego/or “letting go” was the way to reach transcendence.

But now I think arriving at this conclusion without a journey will not let me to practice/feel this fully, so I am okay with materialistic/individualist calls/urges sometimes.

Developing a ritual takes time. Maybe it’s ok that I’m so confused (for) now…

Worlding practice.