The sky is demoing high-altitude indigo.

Dark-blue eclipse tints, streaked with the cocaine-straight meteor trails of jets.

Out of view, a farmer burns black plastic and afterbirth.

Gotta love the smell of endocrine disrupters in the morning.

I picture an Aladdin’s cave of weirdness. Barbie dolls taped in stress positions.

Even the Tetris rubble spells “Lolita”.

Today’s paranoia level: elevated.

The action is overtaking the narrative.

People talk about the zombie apocalypse as if there’s still time to prepare.


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