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If we don’t set bound set boundaries, then we will be destroyed. I write this; I take a drink. The thought returns, modified, specified: if we don’t set boundaries with technology, then we will be destroyed. I take another sip. I can hear bugs; it’s colder in Pennsylvania than in New York City, as if the heat of climate change accumulates in cities, which I suppose it does. The thought keeps pushing up from the deep wells of my psyche: set boundaries or perish. I’m not afraid of perishing physically: I’m afraid of metaphysical annihilation; I’m afraid of devolving from a soul into a mind into a brain, like a rich man who has to pawn his favorite watch to buy a piece of bread. I feel like I’ve lost the key to my own best thoughts; ordinary existence is so remarkably cognitively exhausting, leveling. I get the feeling that nature is waiting for humans, and their industrial society, to disappear; but we cannot wait for ourselves to disappear — our souls, I mean, the best parts of ourselves. We seem to have fused with the tools we built to aid our calculations. We seem to have become computers with a vague nostalgia for the human past. I take another sip. I listen to the bugs. It’s cold outside, but not cold enough for the season…
