I'm tired of reading of the worst of man's woes. I cannot take it for another day, the laziness and greed and anger that simmers over the world, like gasoline rain on a fevered brain. I weep to myself, I shake myself awake, I wait for twenty years. Still, like a drugged monster smacking half-numb paws against the concrete, the people chatter and bustle, convinced, asleep. They talk, we all talk, I most of all. And whereas once I would brim and boil, and beat the very air down around me trying to form my understanding, I have grown tired and nearly given up. My jaws clickety clack to keep up an appearance of care, but I'm hardly there.

That's a lie. I'm here. I'm here more than ever. At least right now. You know the deal. Ebb and Flow, spin the wheel. I laugh at myself when I come to this point. When the perfect halo of fire encircles the black moon in the sapphire skies above me, casts my pretense into silhouette. When the day rolls her eyes toward evening, silently straddling the seam joining Then and Now. Skate your fingers over the ugly, scarred face of change. Find yourself again.

I'll be back.