What is true of one man, said the judge, is true of many. The people who once lived here are called the Ansazi. The old ones. They quit these parts, routed by drought or disease of by wandering bands of marauders, quit these parts ages since and of them there is no memory. They are rumors and ghosts in this land and they are much revered. The tools, the art, the building-—these things stand in judgement on the latter races. Yet there is nothing for them to grapple with. The old ones are gone like like phantoms and the savages wander these canyons to the sound of an ancient laughter. In their crude huts they crouch in darkness and listen to the fear seeping out of the rock. All progressions from a higher to a lower order are marked by ruins and mystery and a residue of nameless rage. So. Here are the dead fathers. Their spirit is entombed in the stone. It lies upon the land with the same weight and the same ubiquity. For whoever makes a shelter of reeds and hides has joined his spirit to the common destiny of creatures and he will subside back into the primal mud with scarcely a cry. But who builds in stone seeks to alter the structure of the universe and so it was with these masons however primitive their works may seem to use.
me: wow these frustrating RDR2 hunting request missions basically require me to learn to recognize bird species by their songs, and thus creates a more visceral sense of earned outdoorsmanship than I expected
What the "unplug for self-care" crowd doesn't get is that you are part of a Giant Social Computer in the Cloud (GSCITC) computing the future. The level and latency at which you consume information and act on it determines your "job" in the social computer. Your shitposting and FOMO are functional.
No matter how brilliant the output of the collective intelligence/group mind -- and at its best Twitter in particular can be sublime in its sum-greater-than-parts output -- there is no easy way to disentangle and proudly claim your contribution to the distributed computation.