I'm writing this as the weather hovers in the single digits. I'm certain you're freezing your keister off where you are.
It appears that we're living in the era of a real-time symbolic covergence, as we reflect upon the events of the 6th, the presence of these Crocket-like phantasms of Americana self-named as Q Shamans, and an absolutely rabid group already primed from powerchurch teachings to fantasy narratives in general to seek out and battle an insidious evil in our midst. That event will go down as one of the stranger moments in my life.
I had a troubling realization that the kid who'd rock back and forth for hours alone, who'd bang his head against his pillow until he'd fall asleep, is still there. No headbanging, but clearly, yes, rocking and with the sound off, alone.
I'm a blurry noun.
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