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I thought I had something to live for but I was already dead.
Or so, that’s what was on Cranch’s bald mind yesterday. The prognosis wasn’t good — to strip all fat out of words, it outright sucked. The corruption had spread to the extremities of Cranch’s limbs. Even his stubby big toe (one was, one wasn’t). A year to live, maybe more, maybe less — but being the daredevil risktaker he had always been (a shade more subtle now, perhaps), he didn’t want to leave that up to chance. Without hesitation and offered the option by the Docs, he scarfed up the amakielmesef, or as it was more popularly known, the “year-long comfort suicide pill”. Any suffering due to lateral corruption would be completely nullified, in exchange for an irreversibly predictable, inevitably painless death. Unless something else (like a meteorite strike) happened, you’d know your day and minute of passing (what a crap euphemism) a span of months in advance. Given the short-frame uncertainties many were given — Cranch included — this was a superior alternative path to the generic eternal dirt nap. And since he’d tragically resigned himself to never finding the magical milk and eggs he needed to prolong a life well-lived, this is how it must be.
Khwooofaaaphoooooooooooooooooom!
At least a thousand soda pop cans exploded in vocal agony, their turpid frothy insides spewing onto their shoddy paper-box-homes and the contents of every aisle in proximity. “One last adventure fo’ ol’ Cranchie!” he chuffed in a gruff voice, hands manipulating the comically touch-sensitive screen of this incredibly destructive tunnel-drill that had burrowed by the Walin-Peake’s bridge and made its grand exit here, before aghast shoppers in Consumer Central. Cracked checkerboard tile spit into chaotic spirals, recursive diminution freaking out one single mom-and-cub, who, after she was decked in the head by a particularly jagged bit of eggshell-textured textile, decided “GTFO!” was the command of now.
Not something you see at a fucking ultramarket everyday, no sirree. Cranch chomped down on his objube, decked out in an uncharacteristically bland wifebeater with sweat stains on it, the result of the subterranean adventure that had transpired some moments earlier. Time to let my hair down, as bald as I’ve become, he figured.
Just outside, a couple physically-contrasting figures (because that’s what all the great duos are like, right?) watched from their hippy-dippy van while Consumer Central’s neon sign fizzled, then fell, making shopping carts go 2D. That would pess off the Morridge Porridge Empire. The more slender of the pair waggled her beak and turned to her green-and-pink companion, incidentally dressed in the same clothes Cranch was. But they were merely observing; knew it would go down this way, and after nonchalantly watching the self-implosion of franchise #543 all around, they sped off with an oily flame trail into the next destination they needed to hug.
From Dream Journal 1… because 2 is here
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(This transcript portion has been cleaned up as much as audible. Uncertain passages — pauses — have been left as ellipses.)
V: “And why is it I don’t see you frequenting the Metro as much?”
C: “I feel klempt.” (laughs) “Really however, unlike the trains running on time, there are too many dead ends. Lack of followup!”
(both laugh heartily)
V: “The old wasters’ gossip in circles. Nothing comes of it. But their time circles the drain — explain this new way of life.”
C: “I sense you’re not eminently curious. Still, since I wish to tell, it started when I decided to go to the supermarket when everyone else was at work. It was so quiet, I felt a wash of peace as I picked out eggs under the halo-ringed lights. I began to wonder what would happen if I time-shifted holidays, too. Break the social cycles, the ‘dumb norm’.”
V: “Ayum?”
C: “Never too late to start, yea. But there’s always an escape velocity. I saw ‘friends’ drifting away from me, afraid of what I had become, as if I was a monster — a vampire, drinking time?” (laughs) “In retrospect, I wonder if such a process is easier if we did it together, like group dieting. Friends help each other instead of pushing the tall daisy down. I plainchanted (…) and know this is how it must be, the faults of many.”
V: “Ayes?”
C: “Not being involved, understanding, invested in what they talk about. The old wasters, how often I’d hear complaints about Vrina or Skerbincht, and of course it is easier to yap-yap than catch a rabbit in a trap. My metacognitive abilities had entered this fresh zone. I had become painfully but joyfully self-aware, self-conscious, a true discovery of self. Without the useless guild that usually clouds it!”
V: “Ayux, I can relate. Too much drive-by chit-chat, not enough ‘we’re going on a road trip, who is committed? Who is in and not a ass-bastardly coward?’ But the world knows much fear, which is how we are built. With fragile scaffolding that is confused with quality training wheels. This shield is like an overprotective parent, which does not allow us to experience the world as it really is.” (grim huff) “I’ve always think you and moi like each other, due to independent thoughts we surface like pearl divers, and share.”
C: “Perhaps.” (wry laugh)
V: “There is so much that doesn’t matter, so don’t get into it. As Party says, ‘Chop the slop!’ You don’t know at first, but this rapid knowledge iteration, demands personal inquisition. Never count on the first time to be perfect, but thrive the dirt and tunnel through, that will get you closer to whatever you call this ‘perfection’. I think a-sometimes, maybe I’m a hatir (misanthrope), but I really do love some of our kind. Of course, the ones unloved, they are not kind to themselves.”
(rustling sounds, likely the two gentles ascending the train)
From the Dream Journal
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Earlier, I purchased a Multi-Color E27 LED Light bulb w/ Remote from Amazon and have greatly enjoyed it, but craved more — it simply didn’t shine enough. My creative play-work demands being "in the flow" and mood lighting augments my output superbly, giving a real cinematic feel to even routine tasks like email. Before, I thought playing epic trailer music while pressing Reply would be enough, but clearly, I hadn’t experienced mood lights.
Months ago, I read reviews of LivingColors and am surprised they still seem very rare Stateside (compared to earlier availability in Europe). A curiosity rather than a commercial phenomenon. While part of this may be due to cost, we each weigh our own priorities, right? Still, I hope for widespread adoption of these colors which feel alive, not unlike how every house has common lightbulbs. Since I already had such a good experience with limited mood lighting, I became intent on expanding my palette.
My ownership has only been several (intense) days, but what I tentatively conclude so far is: like cats, having only one LivingColors feels terribly lonely. Even the full-size Philips 69143/60/48 LivingColors Generation 2 Translucent Changing LED Lamp with Remote isn’t enough to really light up my workspace at night, and the dynamics of contrast with another color adds so much value and spice. So, I also have a Philips 818564 LivingColors Mini Changing LED Lamp, White (I actually got it first, since the Gen 2 wasn’t in stock). With the two of them combined, as you can clearly see in this video, there’s a lot of joy to be had.
A future feature I’d add is the ability to program custom lighting sequences. Is an iPhone app for this too much to ask? It’d be a natural extension of the current color cycling option, which smoothly cycles through the spectrum on both the Gen 2 and the Mini, and whose speed can be changed, but you can’t limit the range or trigger events more specifically. This would open up possibilities to sync to binaural beats and other synesthesiac promises, fulfilling Philips’ advertising of really setting the tone in your home. (Or elsewhere.)
There are a few niggles I have as shown in the video, but my chief constructive criticism is I wish these puppies were brighter. While they certainly overwhelm my webcam, as other pictures I’ve taken show, there’s plenty of darkness to encroach upon.
LED mood lighting in the home still feels like it’s an infancy — not that we’d ever advance into a hippy-dippy psychedelia portrayed in so many 60s trip movies — but I’d still consider LivingColors for enthusiasts and early adopters like myself, who consider it an important part of your daily life due to your eclectic proclivities, and not just a casual interest. I just hope they don’t burn out on me anytime soon.
Here’s looking to a brighter future with Gen 3!
Also…
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"Imparity of the senses, mm?" Dr. Bartok-Hu glid spectrally along the cool marble surface and rapped his fingers on the bass projector, turning to me for further discourse. It was clear at this late an hour, that he was both sheepish and lonely. "Isn’t it funny how these — these headphones here, the popular Veesixes, began manufacture over two decades ago, and continue to be made for the demands of the masses? Almost like some market-dominant sugar water. And yet… the same is unthinkable of any display technology. Sight and sound aren’t equally matched. Which would you rather lose?"
My own thought processes had drifted into some weird zone pondering why sudden shocks in scary movies were always more effective if the jump cut was accompanied by a shrill spike in amplitude, but the Dr. brought me back with his rambling, and proceeded to reel me in further.
"A queer observation, nonetheless a valid one. Observe sound cards in our computers — onboard audio, integrated, is perfectly acceptable for many. And a lot cheaper than these heated beasts," Dr. Bartok-Hu waved bony fingers over a rack of GPUs splayed diagonally, wedged into an open case like ribs fused to a spine. "But what was that saying, sound is half of what you see? How can that be when it advances so much slower?"
"Maybe it doesn’t need to go as fast?" I bluntly interjected, not having another sentence to back me up. Then I thought (at the moment) cleverer of myself and hiccupped, "The speed of light far exceeds the speed of sound, after all."
The Dr. chuckled wry-dryly.
As a result of experiments here, it felt natural to think of what we might grow into someday: I had become increasingly accustomed to migrating old data from one data drive to a bigger, faster one. The same bits, made more accessible through advancing search to cut through all those telabytes. Find what you’re looking for, damnit. My thoughts flitted further, reminded of how a more vibrant display could make the same base computer unit appear more expensive and capable of doing more. Like cosmetic surgery. And all these parts, most of which were perfectly interchangeable. And when patches are no longer applicable, leave the old shell behind as you burst forth into a new body.
We had become so used to doing this with machines, extensions of ourselves. Would we then find it so natural to do it with our own bodies?
From the Dream Journal
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Dear son,
We wrote this for you when you’re about to die. You don’t deserve a veiled euphemism, so I (dad) will say it outright: I hope after all’s said and done, you’ve done a lot more than you said. And you sure were quite the talker. Life wasn’t always easy for us as a family and I won’t deceive you by saying something idealistic yet shamefully abstract and unrealizable, like "We did our best". Who really knows? But we did a lot together, and in our many moments as a family together, there was a lot of love.
You always had a good heart, reassuring me and your mom that you’d be okay, even when we didn’t have enough money to pay for your treatments. Sometimes I feel guilty because I wonder if we had done something sooner, we could’ve prevented what we felt — but didn’t know — what was going to come. I couldn’t tell if you really were laid back and indifferent to the turbulence in the world… or if it was just your way of coping with dark days ahead, but to those who knew and cared about you, it helped comfort us when we were stressed.
Your sister lives on and she’ll miss you too, even if she did like to sock you in the head as you were strolling by to the buffet table. Sorrows grow into smiles in time, I guess.
See you on the other side of the rainbow bridge. We love you, dad and mom
From the Dream Journal
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Even a time traveler must eat, and the answer to the above question is almost always positive in this fort. A southern (south of Canada, that is) boy like myself is traditionally supposed to heap praise on his mother’s cooking. Alas, I have nothing to say since the Dark Lord Flavorkiller corrupted her understanding of the word “delicious”. Feeling sorry for my sense-addled ma and shaking my fork at the aforementioned Dark Lord, I set out on a life upgrade.
Did I ever find it, hell yea! Ravenelle, ever since the first meal you lovingly prepared that we consumed together, you tantalized me with many enchanted promises that this would be a reliable pattern — not a stranded anomaly. I’ve been grateful for your majestic prowess in keeping me nourished. When it is not with food, it is with love.
Years later, we’ll look back at last night and know that not only was it the time we finished watching the last episode of Veronica Mars (sniff), but also the special occasion you crafted a sublime steak: mushrooms and onions adding an incredible amount of value to the meat, and the fluffy mashed potatoes serving as a “buffer cloud” and mild contrast to the tangy juices. It was tremendously delectable and I look forward to what you conjure next, lover.
P.S. Brother Zephos, I hope this gives you hope for the future.
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“If the path to transhumanism is fraught with thorns from those who oppose it on the grounds of morals and ethics, is the only solution to remove our humanity?" -T.C.V.
Ae rocked lullingly in the tepid breeze, tipping her wide-brimmed hat to optimize her shade. Clasping hands together, tenting pointing fingers, she focused on the sparklish projection before her nose, neck motions corresponding with the rotation of the admiral model. She was trying to focus, but then there was that annoying bang! from down the street, so she craned her neck — again, slightly, and wrinkled, flared her tiny nose.
"Lowminds," she knew.
A brusque couple were having a war of words. It became apparent they exited their vehicle like scurrying ants to impose some unfortunate domestic variety of road rage upon each other.
Insects, Ae thought correctly. A ripple coasted down the sidewalk, tugging at the couple. Still, they remained ignorant. Ae couldn’t relate at all to the buffoons — after all, since everyone is equal, everyone had been given the opportunity to be awesome. Few had actualized that path, and reminiscent of some rather polarizing siffys in which their authors expounded unpopular political views of the day, we now had the haves and the have-nots in a daily regimen of disproportional resource utilization. (And it’s always about resources.)
Put them like metal balls in a magninko game and see where they fall, Ae reinforced herself, understanding the perceived (and useless) line for many was that between "work" and "play". Those who exceeded such a limited conclusion and were able to unify their flow had trodded highmindedly upwards. Love doesn’t come from the heart, that’s a vestigial tale from before our enlightenment.
Another series of blink, sharded polygons flying out of the projection and reforming into a variation upon the master theme. As excellent as Ae’s control was, however, the buffoons were approaching. She didn’t like this one bit.
Another blink, and they were nil. Gazing over rows of ripe corn, she smiled in a way that couldn’t be described as a temperature.
From the Dream Journal
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Peoples of Antibes!
My name is Rolo Antibes. I hesitate to foist disturbing propaganda on yurselves, which this is certainly not. Sol, hear me out: it was but several bray-ba that the notion of a camera stealing yur very soul was not a laughable one. Today, we recognize that as freck, the amassed mental-feces of lowminds. But a truth has persisted, allbeit into a different sense: OF THE SOUND.
Cast down yur portable electronic players! What you are listening to, "compressed music", is the "shadow people" of our ears. Yes, save some drive space, but lose yur pure self. Yes, the fool-butt undergrads at the patent university would have "us" believe that their applied research makes the "duplicates" imperceptible from the "originals". It is also shamed that several generations have gone by, allowing such a market penetration that studies show that 96.2% of music in circulation are the inferior "clones". Bodies without a greater purpose, and that is a root cause of so much social tensions and combative attitudes.
You can copy the surface sound, but a disappointment it is, much as a gift chocolate egg you expect for solid chewiness — yet creates a frown upon yur visage when the crust crumbles, leaving you with a HOLLOW IMPRESSION. But as my colleagues and I will demonstrate in the mainsquare’s sparklish, that there is more that has been left behind than many people will ever know. This is disgrace! Come, don yur characteristic ivory earbuds, and witness with me, what our culture is losing, the very spirit of the sonic arts themselves.
THESE ARE NOT THE ARTIFACTS WE WISH TO BEAR FALSE WITNESS TO.
IF SEAGULLS CAN DISTINGUISH AND CAN’T GET DOWN, THEIR HIER-RECT TRUMPTS URS.
From the Dream Journal
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A Gnos, born for no specific purpose, but deciding to make use of one: acutely aware she’s different from others, radiating a starburst of charisma everytime another is attracted to her, but no attraction in return. Upon drawling a flock, then, with sufficient exposure to the external world, noticing a few others who’d also be known as Gnos, sentient magnets of similar (or even greater) attractive qualities. At first, gentle rivalries like overlapping waves to see what would happen: hers against yours. Then, the experiments grow forceful and violent, creating "ZoG" — Zealots of Gospel — on each side of the ever-growing polygon of conflict.
Gnos, overseers of living game pieces on this long march, sending them out on increasingly desperate missions, viscera-froth bursting from the sewers as the taskmasters sit back with cold Scotches, grimly aware there’s only really one shared path… but the populous fails to accept more than a single patch of this quilt. Not due to inability, but free will. For the Gnos, even games of life and death become boring, as desensitization kicks in amidst higher stakes.
Stereo yes unaware: "I give my life for you, for it’s what I believe in, even if you could claim to do the same for me, you wouldn’t."
For the Gnos, a conscience is as alien as lack of control.
From the Dream Journal
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Play and read on…
From the Dream Journal
Feline greetings! I’m Mr. Sushi. I’m an old, fat, black cat. The odds were stacked against me at the shelter but I can give you tips on how to be adopted into the loving home of your dreams. Not that it isn’t cool playing with all the other cats, but after standing on those faux bookshelves and being batted around by rambunctious kittens, it got tiresome.
I’m a pretty laid back dude and I don’t have the sprightliness of those youngsters, but let me tell you, do I ever know how to give a good headbutt. You know how Donald Trump says that men who shake hands all wimpy-like are lacking self-confidence? Well, since I’m not exactly a "shake-paws cat", I use my best asset: my head. I like to ram straight ahead and do it repeatedly.
Guess what? 95% of the cats at the shelter DON’T DO THIS. So even if you have some physical inconveniences like myself, you’ll stand out. Or sit out, because you’re on all four paws. Whatever. Just be responsive.
Obviously, not all humans are attracted to this. Like any successful relationship, it has to work both ways. It’s like how some mopes are still superstitious and stay away from black cats? Why? Because they’re animal racists! That suits me just fine because I’m a skeptic and pretty logical. You wouldn’t know it just looking at me, but it’s true.
But boy, do I love to be belly-scratched. That’s another thing you can do. Drop to your side and expose your tummy. When you get scritched, wiggle your paws and stick them straight out. Extend your legs too for an extra-healthy stretch. Look up curiously and even dilate your pupils to look far younger than your years. It’s hard to resist.
That’s what happened to me, anyway. I kept head-butting this one guy — who became my dad — who came into the room, and moments later, I was being whisked into a box and taken to my new home. Ever since, I’ve been subject to lavish petting. Life is good. Except for my sister, who was adopted a few months later. She had it easy because she was all kitten’ed out at two months old, and just had to grab onto my mommy. Damn, here she comes now, always hogging the toys and sometimes batting at me. What a rude brat.
Another thing: don’t be passively attractive. Pacing around your cage senselessly and acting like a litterbag is going to get you nowhere. If you must pace, pace with a purpose. And even if you’re obese like me, learn to jump great distances and run very fast. Not only is it good for your health, it helps you stay flexible as the years go by. You don’t want to be that cat that’s looked at as, "Oh, so-and-so was once so active, but now he’s a big lazyass". Sure, I sleep. We all do. But when it’s time to move — like to the food bowl — I can get that done effectively.
Anyway, remember, always show purrsonality!
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I’m enamored with tools that break crusty conventions so you can get back to making art, maybe even tapping into your naive mind without irrational pressure eating away at your soul. Well, I found out about Alchemy from Lifehacker, and decided to give it a spin… or a shout. Funny thing was I didn’t even know, going in, that it would have a "mic shapes" option. Make sure your audio input is readily setup so you can bark while you sketch.
I’ve seen some really ferocious, pseudo-Keep Adding+Scott Pagano-ish stuff come out of this app and I’m hoping to spend more quality time with it. Then maybe go the other way ’round and convert those paintings into audio!
For all the time I’m thankful for non-linear experimentation, for Alchemy, I have to say it frees you from being Undo’s bitch.
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Press play and read on…
From the Dream Journal, also found on Kavhi Collective’s Serenity
Great houses, a whirling cauldron of nepotism, in the way of voracious clones attacking a common customer design problem.
The stalls are saturated with swirling incense, forming semi-rainbow-colored trails that point to the droopy moon almost hugging a huddle of skyscrapers.
"I. Ching’s us! And what can I, we, do for you?" The goggle-eyed grifter glared a glinty grin and flashes you with his show-pocket of taped packets beneath a flasher’s jack’et, each one unsettling seeds, authentic audio replicas of long-lost city ambience. Much as how every iconic place has its signature look, you can tell a lot from what it sounded like: murmurs of downtown bustle (notably, the massed amalgamation of gossip in ritzy cafes), wildlife choruses on the cacophone, and flanged aircraft trails overhead a foundation of petrol-powered carmobiles. Some which fly.
Stand somewhere with a sensory recorder and capture all the inputs, you know? You know the names: most of the cities have succumbed to strife, and your first impression might be, "Who would recreate such a place? Why not remember it as it was?" but then, that’s the point. Memory is a persistent beast. Even if you move away from a tender town which had the unfortunate opportunity to discover war, a part of you always lives within. Those ghosts —
Clattering pots raining down, Ching (one of many) turning to face the smoky air, canting an eyebrow to change the tint and opacity of his lenses, not particularly tied to this part of wherever. But still, invested in the city’s economy in his own special way. "I make you good deal, Sirrrr."
"I’ve come for seeds, specifically, to all Pouchebonne strands," you push the empty packet across the table, expecting a refill. With each one, the picture becomes fuller, you get closer to making THAT JUMP BACK™. Hooked on what you knew to be true and still wished was, the last survivor of a place long gone.
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I knew the first time we "met" on the cyber chat lines that we would get along. Actually, that’s what she said. In retrospect, how could I not? She was responsive, geeky, and made me laugh. I wore my headphones to bed, listening to her sweet voice — emotions saturating the wires.
It eventually got to where we had to be together, physically. She asked, "Are you sure you really want this?" and the only right answer was "Yes!"
I showed up at her house and opened the door. Went to the basement and found her in all her silvery glory, lights cascading and a punch card dropping out from her slot, querying: "Will you be my sysadmin forever?"
From the Dream Journal.
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Every maam wants to believe her child is special — even the most special in the world, unless she has multiples. Then, they all became that. No maam wants to hear her precocious two-year-old babble, "Imma gonna grow up to be a worser terror than Oring Ame (that serial killer) we saws on the news last nite!", or "I’m not as special as you think I am!", or even "If you can’t accept me for who I am, I’ll become what you’ll never wanted me to be."
Stills, somewhere along the way, I accepted that what mamma really wanted, she couldn’t understand. I saws her, as many aging people without a fire do, began to live life in a loop. After paap walked out in the cold and never came back to the perceived warmth of our family home, it’s like maam went into "say useless abstractions" mode for the worse. I loathe another "I did the best I could as a parent," it’s eminently untestable. No one knows for sure, and those who lie about it are the most unsure of all. She started believing in dumb-quackery, her eyes would spin ’round in her sockets. She never did have the alcohols but I wish she did for the sake of put-out-ness.
I described worlds to her that made no sense (to her). She’d tell me stories of people in the past I couldn’t feel, had no relation for — what has they done for me? They’s no kin. So I turns my back on that and do the HUM… hold the globe with a pocket universe in it, palm tree resort. Shake it up and be there. Among what I sees, maybe with these daisies in my clenched left fist, lucidity stands by myside:
- 035 – Sine tones uplifting like fresh-pressed laundry on a dog’s happiest day to muck it all up. A planet of fertile vegetation beset by legged fish cultivating neon eggs in a cathedral of sacred rites.
- 037 – The greatest astrolomer who ever died, Karl Pagan, epithizing about the state of wonder in a planetarium the size of a planet. Hence why it’s called as such. Reverb bigger than galactic bowls can scoop up.
- 038 – Being passenger, windowside on a formidably quiet skycraft. A pleasant turbulence urging my fellow passes to pass the time, lilting of my lazy eyes as the canyon dreams blast through ragged clouds. Awaiting touchdown.
- 041 – Being privy to the siteght of some great tragedy. Buried beneath, secrets of the All-Normal Family that lived a double life. How could they do such wretched things, the bastards? TOO MUCH PRESSURE TO CONFORM, ABORT!
- 043 – Drifting into hum, suspended like mint crystals on the day we should’ve died together. Afraid movement will destroy what we’ve built, but convinced our cocoon must be ruined to reach.
- 046 – Graam’s gentle vinyl crackle like waves on the seashore we played as children, shells to collect, souvenirs attaching themselves to this point of origin. And now I hold myself holy and use the sound to get back.
It can’t be everyday I want to travel. But those phases, they come, and the rest of life must stop for them. Even if maam dain’t understand.
From the Dream Journal.
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As a monk, I live simply and reduce material consumption to what I actually use. Chop the slop! Aside from the occasional delight, it’s rare that I indulge in something that may be considered "extravagant". Well, my Wife has been giving me flack for years over my old black Nike sneakers, which I’ve worn for even more years. They don’t look that bad to me, but I figured it was time to walk in a new pair of shoes.
I looked around at various bargain specials, but kept insisting to my Wife that any replacement for my old shoes would really have to speak — and sing! — to me. Along the trail of hyperlinks, I recalled that Nike offers a "NIKEiD" service for customized apparel. I chuckled to myself, "Surely they couldn’t have a very bright pink and green!" (AKA my signature watermelon color scheme.)
Thankfully, I was proved wrong. I played with the online editor, which was overall a satisfying experience aside from some timeouts (which didn’t recur). I saved my design (two alternates, but the first I came up would be the better) and, after discussing it with my Wife, I decided to leap for these. At US$130 incl. shipping, they were double the price of some decent sneaks I found elsewhere, but if they last me anywhere near my old shoes and still have some shine at the end of it, I’ll know they were worth it.
I ordered them on 2010-07-02 and they arrived today, 2010-07-13 — which was quicker than the expected four-week wait time I saw on Nike’s site. Gotta love when expectations are exceeded. The order confirmation emails were pretty, too. I haven’t had any need to contact customer support because they fit snugly. I’m also surprised the colors are almost as accurate and vibrant as they appeared on the website. So far sole good. 
My Wife is so supportive, we went outside and I danced for her photographic amusement while listening to a Dream Journal III/3 track called "Demoscene Disco" which sounds exactly as it’s named… I hope you’ll be able to hear after I manage to catalogue its dependent sonic artifacts. Life at the melonastery is good.
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