Strange days. That's what *these* have been.
It began before Michael died (maybe with that combusted airplane out of Brasilia or that impromptu monsoon season, our June-length bout of SUPER-coastalness). But the weirds have only mushroomed since MJ's passing, since each of the celebrity "passages" of last week, since Billy Mays weathered a sticky landing at Tampa International Airport only—some 20 hours later—to be felled by an embolism at home.
I (and a few others) have been gripped by a general anxiety, starting at the lurch of a train or the pop of a firecracker, inadvertantly calling upon Jesus. Or really, envisioning Jesus (a thing I never do) as a masked avenger, as death chasing Billy Mays, as a headless horseman.
Petrova said last night: "Shit's finally catching up with people." And that settles it.
...Now I'll can the alarmism for another week--promeso.
Petrova said last night: "Shit's finally catching up with people." And that settles it.
...Now I'll can the alarmism for another week--promeso.
2 comments:
we obviously need to take a cue from dianne and just stop participating in life until this passes
set that celly on the side of our faces
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