The drenching rain and punishing winds outside the windows this winter night blow change across a troubled land. Dark forces work their mysteries, but right before our eyes unfolds a psycho-nightmare of grotesque power, filthy lucre, and political hijinx, plated in fool’s gold, draped in delusion. One’s base instincts twinge and squirm, animus awakened, crying out -- there must be a deliverance, an answer, a road map that makes sense and isn’t smeared with hairspray.
But the night is long and the map is lost.
The dawn comes. The daylight beckons, there’s much to do. It’s not the hour to linger in the luxury of the morning light; slippers, espresso, the New York Times.
Caffeine, yes, straight up. To kick the dark forces back to the underworld, wear boots. Warm coat, good socks, strong heart. Protest signs printed, megaphone charged, guitars tuned, drum heads tight.
Time to make history. Might as well lock arms, walk into the future, and insist on your part of it.