It should be easy enough to imagine the nullity of waiting for
your better half’s anxious [or, as Thesaurus.com suggests,
fidgety] commodity fetishism to play itself out [or run its
course as my internal lexicon suggests]: in an era before
fitbit® [or trackers, a general term suggested by fitbit.com],
walking uncounted but asymptotically infinite steps up and down
the aisles, stopping at apparently random intervals to attempt
decoding packages whose script is not only illegible to you but
often represents a language you cannot name in your own: done.
It should be easy enough to imagine the nullity of waiting for
your better half’s fastidious (or, as Thesaurus.com suggests,
finicky) commodity fetishism to exhaust itself (or run its
course as my private lexicon suggests): in an era before
fitbit® (or trackers, a general term suggested by fitbit.com),
loitering uncounted but asymptotically infinite steps up and
down aisles, you stop at apparently random intervals to attempt
decoding packages whose script is not only illegible but often
represents a language you cannot name in your own language: done.
It should be easy enough to imagine the nullity of waiting for
your better half’s fastidious (or, as Thesaurus.com suggests,
finicky) commodity fetishism to wear itself out (or run its
course as my private lexicon suggests): in the days before
fitbit® (or trackers, a general term suggested by fitbit.com),
loitering uncounted but asymptotic steps up and down Walmart’s
aisles, you stop at apparently random intervals to attempt
decoding packages whose script is often not only illegible but
conveys a language you cannot name in your own language: done.
It should be easy enough to imagine the nullity of waiting for
your better half’s fastidious (or, as Thesaurus.com suggests,
finicky) commodity fetishism to wear itself out (or run its
course, as my private lexicon suggests): in the days before
fitbit® (or trackers, a unregistered term suggested by
fitbit.com), loitering uncounted steps up and down Baba’s
aisles, you stopped at apparently random intervals to attempt
decoding packages whose script was often not only illegible but
conveyed a language perhaps unnamable in your own language: done.
It should be easy enough to imagine the nullity of waiting for
your better half’s fastidious (or, as Thesaurus.com suggests,
finicky) commodity fetishism to wear itself out (or run its
course, as my private lexicon suggests): in the days before
fitbit® (or trackers, an unregistered term suggested by
fitbit.com), loitering uncounted steps up and down Walmart’s
aisles, you stopped at apparently random intervals to pretend
to decode packages whose script was often not only illegible but
gushed a language perhaps unnamed in your own language: done.
It should be easy enough to imagine the nullity of waiting for
your better half’s fastidious (or, as Thesaurus.com suggests,
finicky) commodity fetishism to wear itself out (or run its
course, as my private lexicon suggests): in the days before
fitbit® (or trackers, an unregistered term suggested by
fitbit.com), loitering uncounted steps up and down BaBa’s
aisles, you stopped at I Ching-determined intervals to pretend
to read packages whose script was often not only illegible but
bristled a language perhaps unnamed in your own language: done.
It should be easy enough to imagine the nullity of waiting for
your better half’s fastidious (or, as Thesaurus.com suggests,
finicky) commodity fetishism to wear itself out (or run its
course, as my private lexicon suggests): in the days before
fitbit® (or trackers, an unregistered term suggested by
fitbit.com), loitering uncounted steps up and down BaBa’s
aisles, you recalled Jameson’s visit to the Photonics Center,
where he enlightened us (no, really) about how every dystopia
contains utopian potential in it, a détournable infrastructure.
It should be easy enough to imagine the nullity of waiting for
your better half’s fastidious (or, as Thesaurus.com suggests,
finicky) commodity fetishism to wear itself out (or run its
course, as my private lexicon suggests): in the days before
fitbit® (or trackers, an unregistered term suggested by
fitbit.com), loitering uncounted steps up and down BaBa’s
aisles, you recalled Jameson’s visit to the Photonics Center,
where he enlightened us (no, really) about dystopia, how it
always has utopian potential, a détournable infrastructure.
It should be easy enough to imagine the nullity of waiting for
your better half’s fastidious (or, as Thesaurus.com suggests,
finicky) commodity fetishism to wear itself out (or run its
course, as my private lexicon suggests): in the days before
fitbit® (or trackers, an unregistered term suggested by
fitbit.com), loitering uncounted steps up and down BaBa’s
aisles, you recalled Jameson’s visit to the Photonics Center,
where he enlightened us (no, really) about dystopia, how it
has utopian potential. That became our unfinished business.