Civilization and its Disco Tents

Dearest Loved Ones, 2015 has been a record shitty year for our family, as you well know by our doomladen and dour facebook posts of late. Little Matterhorn can’t seem to stop making books from the scraps of writing and drawing his father sheds as a side effect of his horrible, unnamed disease. Expelled from his school and made into an object lesson in actuarially indefensible metaphysics by his deeply concerned suite of tutorial apps, our young mountain faces daily an exponentially rising pressure to molehill himself, in spite of which he continues to project losses well beyond the rearview face of posterity. We are beside ourselves with perfervid, dire hope. Alas, our thinkbank never ceases to refinance our defaults against the greater good, so we rumble onward, as all good family corporations must, apologizing to the ground that flattens beneath our treads, bowing our illicitly intelligent heads to nature’s nasty beauty as dutifully as the next early-mid-singularity mindswap of meager consciousnesses. Your friends in favor of a revisionist future, The J. K. Johnsons