The weather. Testy, dubious, and as it ever was, verging on hopelessly mad, but forever at odds with the notion that hope springs eternal. It was commonplace to hate the weather so much the more than any sense of dread or fear--consider, the climate change people, and the hecklers talking of decades old theories of Global Warming, saying its impossible while saying its the End Times--how easy it is to hate people, to shout them down, whatever, ignore them and whatsoever for doing nothing so contemptible as living their own truths--
oh let them I say, and it wasn't the damnable weather that fueled our epistle, crepiscular sagacious otherwise self-serving noise--
we had plenty of that, and if we monetized, we could finally afford our empathy, apathy, instead of borrowing against our entropy, atrophy and apostasy.
It was not signs of the End Times we were looking for, but signs of normalcy, were we all little trolls that needed it as a kind of ragebaiting fuel to carry us over onto the other page.
And then we found we had completed a full circle around our Monopoly board, and had the pleasure of May blossoms in which to look forward.
As hard the heart of weather's soul are the hopes of misguided mankind,
and the truest genius wiggles along either collecting his nuts or crunching them in repose
in whatever course of events, to profit thereby
our endowment, our crown and charger is the covered wager in whatever outcome, be it the tyranny that is all our yesses and noes, our a donut hole in our sweetest, silliest remembrances.
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