Call me a blushing sentimentalist if you will, but I like to close my eyes and reflect on a simpler time for humanity; back when we would engage in flirtation with our burgeoning crushes by using prose scrawled in dactylic hexameter on parchment (you know, instead of prefabricated, prepackaged corporate emoji speak undertaken for the purpose of reducing vulnerability and any heartfelt attempt at deep, connective language).
And back then, if our attempts at love language were not well-received and we were feeling particularly melancholic and forlorn about the situation, we wouldn't tweet rage in 140 characters or less or consult the hive mind of opinionated facebook friends who would offer simplistic cliche-ridden messages of reductionist supportive banter. No, we would tackle the problem the way it should be tackled: By attempting to gain some solid life advice by way of providing a little bit of gold, blood and hyssop to the oracle of Delphy, as she pontificated during a deeply inebriated meditative state from the miasmic fumes of the beautifully decomposing earthbody of a slain cobra sprawled out beneath her.
Those were the days. Am I right, fam?
