I’ve been feeling down this past week. It might be because I’ve been listening to too much discordant music: the uncoordinated, nonrhythmic pulse of content, which is less like a pulse—which indicates life—and more like clashing cymbals (symbols!). An infinite array of them.
I’m writing this on Palm Sunday, which begins a week marked by a very specific cadence of time for me—one which transcends whatever is happening in the world: the engagement-grabbing headlines of the news cycle, the twitter timeline, the car horns in DC.
