Okay so it has been a while.

Since the All the Things That Mean Nothing post, I witnessed some more toxification at the peripheries of the digital spaces I am bound to, further shaking everyone else's faith in the constancy of platforms. (For context, I'm talking about the schrodinger blockification of Kickstarter, the fence-dancing of Patreon, and the farcical PR meltdown of Gumroad) More and more I'm thinking, boy, how far into the nuclear fallout of Web 2.0 will I tolerate until I say, eff it and bunker underground?

It's been eons since I last drew Grimsley and with pencils. I've missed the two a lot lately, so I'm beginning my journey back to the way things used to be done, ten years ago.

Well, this is Year 3 of the pandemic. My prediction was right. Internally I'm feeling like a skeleton dusty and dessicated from years of waiting to be rescued from the cave I fell into.

About the miasma of art made in the chain of blocks. A personal ramble. Just to preserve my current thoughts for my future self.