1000 Koans


When someone is typing an iMessage to a number outside their contact list, who sees the ellipses on the other end?

There’s never enough time in the day to do all of the nothing you want to do in the face of everything you’re putting off.

Refreshing Facebook when you’re trying to work on a project is like using a sledgehammer to wash the dishes.

When the month ends and your Metropass expires and you watch the bus go by helplessly it is worse than having an eye plucked out.

Wanting to puke and cough at the same time while your insides threaten to burn out through your stomach because of anxiety you can’t control while you hold your girlfriend’s hand as you walk down Harbord Avenue is not a great feeling.

Standing outside the entrance to the twenty-four hour laundromat on Manning Avenue, waiting to see the apartment on the second floor. A formal queue. The guy who leans down to roll up his backpack says that he should have dressed up. “No,” he says afterwards. “I’m just joking.”

Staring at a red brick building while a man tries to talk to you on Manning Avenue and imagining yourself inhabiting the nothing that the building occludes: not its interior but the nothing. Residing in the brick somehow. Behind it. Inside the sunlight.

When middle-aged people talk about money it sounds like flesh being ripped off the skeletons of live spider monkeys.

There are two kinds of people in the world: people who create their own content, and people who write apps.

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