fervent...

This is one of the words I've written down as of late, to join the other random words that spill out of my brain and onto the page late at night.

An older lady got beaten up on our street late one night last week. Just goes to show how right Anthony Burgess was back in 1962, about all this ultra-violence happening right before our eyes. There is so much I want to say these days and as usual I profess to not know how. Everyone laughs at this claim, coming from I, the Verbose.

However, I continue. My brain feels like 1920s South Georgia (probably due to the muffled Morons singing and chanting outside my office) where it's hazy and hot and there's voodoo and corn on the cob. Things are not as they seem and amidst the shady underbelly of our Harper Lee-esque existence, I'm sitting on the porch, sipping Bourbon, taking it all in.

I dreamed a few nights ago that I found my grandmother drowned in her clothes, in her bathtub, in her apartment. It was not sad, nor was it macabre. She's been gone for a long time. I sat in the tub, drenching my clothes, and rocked her like a baby. I apologized because that's what I do when there is space to fill. She had a wet, nearly see-through, sheet wrapped around her face but she was smiling. Maybe I miss her just a little bit.

In the end there was no life raft; we all drowned too.