it seems obvious that I need a change of direction. I would
hate to find myself over a canyon, moaning like a disco, wanting
something very holdy on to me, like an elephant-sized suspender
hanging from a cloud. Lord of mercy, these words are out
to kill me. Good grief! Is there no relief in effort?
Either way, I'm only whining because I have the time to.
If I were struggling in some revolution somewhere, chanting
my little neck into a clogged sausage, I'd probably be
more die-y than whiny. It's awful what the human heart can
accomplish. It can take years to decide what's best, but it
only takes a few moments to let your kids into the basement, where
you might be trying to say something with one of those
fancy suspicions, and meanwhile, triggers are clicking and
people with meat hanging from their knees are trying to stand up.
