06 January 2015

Epiphany: the Final Insult


W
ell, I let Epiphany slip away somehow, in part because I’m not feeling really well; my terror of leaving the house is kicking in with a vengeance right now. Still, I’ve got a few minutes left before Christmas gasps its last here in the Pacific Northwest, and so I’ll say farewell to a season fraught with horror, filled with nausea, and generally shitty. Nothing I write matters anyway; I’m just doing it as a sort of exercise while I wait for the demons in my head to get off their asses and start doing their damn jobs.
If I were doing my job I’d probably review the various low points of this particular season, from the childishness of the NYPD when faced with institutional tragedy, to follies of the British Royal Family, but I’m not up to it. My vision is shaky, I’m feeling crappy, and doom-shaped clouds are lurking just over the horizon. I can’t see them, but I know they’re there. With the cheer of Yuletide behind us and the cold ghastly fires of Sheol ahead, we are frog-marched into an uncertain future, knowing only that whatever awaits us, it can only be worse than what we’ve already faced.

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