Where Is My Mind?

Right now, I’m trying to remember the name of the distraction-free simple-document editor I put onto my computers not long ago, and have installed, within the last hour, among the PortableApps I have on the USB stick I carry with me most of the time. (The PortableApps which I never use, I might add.)

I can’t remember what it’s called. Despite having deliberately put into my installed PortableApps collection. In fact, I’m not even sure the collection tool itself is called PortableApps.

I could look it up. The USB stick and a free port are within the arm’s reach. Just plug the damned thing in, check the names, and be done with it. Well, I refuse. I refuse precisely because I can’t remember. It’s not the way it should be. I should be able to remember such a significant detail about something I made conscious effort to do.

No luck, though. And it’s almost an hour later.

Games

Can games rate as works of literature? No, Beeb, they can’t. And before I go on a tangent and start ranting how the most trusted news source became a Quatari company… They can rate as games.

And games are art. They are. If an idiot Russian painter was allowed to get away with starting a whole new “art movement” by painting a black square on white background, and calling it, of all things, “suprematism“, then video games are art. To the n-th power.

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