MINDSCAPE

I wrote this in a notebook a while ago and forgot all about it. It chronicled the first two days of the mini-tour that I Have No Love For Men Like You played in the summer of 2025. I didn’t get the last day (which was in Champaign, Illinois) due to a multitude of factors, so I wrote a new segment from my recollection as of the day of transcribing this (March 2026). Day 1 - Driving to Milwaukee, show recollection, arrived in Chicago in the middle of the night In van. Early. Feel like shit. Help. Popping pills (estrogen). At Nate’s. 1 AM. Long drive back to Chicago but we made it and didn’t die. Diet today consisted of Kwik Trip sandwiches and not much else. Played at the Litterbox, a house venue in MKE which we failed to realize might have cats (Rob’s allergic). Whoops. Bands were LoBi LoBianco, In Shining Armor, and The Rise and Fall of a Dilapidated Home. Cool shit all around. The sound system kept shitting itself and the basement was musty and smelled of electrical smoke. Parts...

Note: Something I wrote based around things I saw in my head. Also based on Gemini Home Entertainment.   Pentium 90 Nerve Rot transmits through cathode-ray screens. There is no cure for nerve rot. Death is the only antidote as of right now. The virus spreads through the web, downloads itself deep within the hard drive and CPU, settling in the motherboard completely undetectable. It ruminates for months before making itself known, sapping power from the PC. Slowdown starts as a symptom, errors in regular use, inability to use certain programs; the virus grows while the PC is on and lies in wait while the user begins shopping around for a new device.  The user logs on for the final time. The virus travels to the monitor through the wires. The tower explodes, as does the screen, as the virus is propelled into the mind of whoever is near. In an instant, the user begins to shake. Their nerves are expelled out of their skin, detaching from the body, they exit through whatever orific...

  Note: Some shit I wrote during class while thinking about the terracotta army. Yeup.      Muffled voices. Faces in the windows beneath the dirt, full bodies packed in an unfinished basement. A single light blinds the ones near and grazes the ones far. Grey in the face and hands and expressionless, rigid. Their brothers keep them warm. You see this army on the walk to your house, staring something in the eyes before the sole motile body snuffs out the light, the unknown bringer of an early sunset. You had never paid much mind to this house and you never would have without this passing glance through the sole fractured window into the basement, but now, you need to know more. You knock on the front door to no response. There's a van in the driveway, and another parked ahead of it, so you try again. Nothing. The curtains are drawn but a light is on and is backlighting a silhouette in the living room which makes you knock a third time. Still nothing. The figure doesn't...