Home as Memory

You live in your images of the past, like a real, someday taxable patchwork house that includes a whole wall of you browning out from booze in college (I pray you never drink Everclear "neat"). Also, that house is a big, sweaty lie, because your brain degrades memories like a jpeg file every time you click on it. Home is your memory, and your memory is busted, and words words words, we drift in an open void, meaning = self-made, relativism, but everything's somehow valid through connection, Glenn's not dead.

My point is it's cool to live in a human-sized, misinformed carnival--most of the time--especially if no real clowns (other than Puddles) factor in significantly.

Moral of the story: you're a husk, and all the snapchats inside that husk are where you live.