Increasingly, when you step outside, everything at first seems kinda still, and then … and then this warm little wind whips up, licking around your heels, tripping you up, before next encircling you with brutish power, a cyclone of swirling heat dropped hard atop you, your skin and eyes searing, your vision blurred, your way forward absolutely occluded. You start coughing back the rank musk of rapid decay, the stench of entropy mixed with futility, and hate, and greed, and festering ego.
And why this noxious ill wind? Because. Because, because, because …
Because odds are pretty good for a little spray-tanned orange-headed tiny-handed fascism. That damn fool, I’m beginning to believe, is really gonna win.
<Frankman note, June 30, 2023: Fuck.>
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