The number eight looks so round and feels so eckig. Angular.

What color will the sky be when the sun expands to consume its child? Will mankind retreat to the outer planets? Will it be calculable, when to move to Mars, when beyond? When to seek a new galaxy?

Is it out of proportion, how we who know ourselves to be finite cling to infinity with our stories of afterlife, of reincarnation, of scientific possibility?

Here on this weenie little mote.

And yet: the dice stood on their corners. Did his hand touch mine when I picked them up for another roll?

Why do we need ghost stories? Because we see ghosts. Why do we need monster stories? Because we are monsters. Because we walk at night and sleep during the day and hide our true selves.

A society so adept at channeling desires, at controlling thoughts must perforce create monsters. When I think thoughts not my own, when experts tell me what to want and feel, and someone else’s desires steer me and my own die or hide, I am a monster. Never in recorded history have there been so many of us.

Unless religion did the same thing. Maybe it did. Was religion the advertising, marketing and entertainment of its age?

The democrats have a majority everywhere and still refuse to get anything big done. How would that work? What would be a step on the path to a big thing? How do you throw out those who should be thrown out, but have been preparing for the fight, without triggering 1. a (fake) civil war followed by 2. a (real) draconian crackdown?

Thanks for everything.

You’re welcome.

It’s over so fast, the world, so constant and permanent at first, changing so quickly here towards the end. Concerns not so important as we take them to be. So many ways to hurt a soul, to inflict pain, and so many blown opportunities to allay it. Also, though, this: so much more to every second than just this.

There is curiosity. There are lions prowling our neighborhoods. There is the possibility of everything while we (I) eat our (my) breakfast rolls and quietly die vor uns hin, someone talks to foxes in their dreams.

My wife met a fox on the sidewalk before our house one night, for real, which (reality) although hard to nail down we sometimes see as the opposite of dreaming.

Rod Serling: But is it?

What is the difference between loving someone and touching someone? Why touch them, anyway? Does it reduce pain or multiply it?

Five thirty in the morning, dark as shit, he looks for something at the kitchen table. Will he find it? He looks for peace and love and happiness. He finds joy and sadness do not contradict. He wants his daughters to smile, and mean it.

Do you know I’m here for you? Am I failing you? Isn’t that what father’s do?