An omnipresence of rain flecks will assert itself all morning. They are darkly appealing, like the pure sensory appeal of an iron frying pan full of sizzling onions. Certain melancholy synth tracks from the late 1970s to very early 1980s seem appropriate.


Where this sputtering mist lacks the concentrated dramatic punch of the thunderstorm, it makes up ground in continuous distributed output; like tension weeping from the offal of our collective unconscious’s bruised brain.

The bison statue right outside my window isn’t even attracting photo opportunists today. This is the statue:


People love this thing


They are posing for pictures all of the time


New students, wedding parties, people with lightsabers; I see them all


But not today, today it is pretty forlorn.

I could not find a picture of the statue where it is raining; in substitution please accept this portrait which indicates how we all really feel.


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