Purveyors of Fine Art
The end of another Indiana summer, the likes of which has rarely been experienced in the whole of our history, has now officially come and gone. The only reminder of its existence is just another “X” indelibly carved on to the calendar of an undeniably dystopian year. A solitary mark pulling us all closer to the frozen stagnations of the impending winter, lurking threateningly just on the horizon.
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The City of Wayne is burning tonight. I can feel the claustrophobic heat of the ever-encroaching flames, sitting here under the dying gasp of the twilight’s last gleam. I can hear the chorused coughing cacophony of a city’s choreographed death rattle rattling. I can smell the cloyingly unique stink of the pyre’s smoke blowing in through little windows originally opened in a last gasp attempt to finally breathe free. Little did I know that it would only let in the muffled wheeze of distracted bad decisions, sharpening the precision focus on the desperately unmet desires of a single solitary guilty man. Many mutual mistakes were made that night, behind the masked bandit kiss of a pandemically inspired stolen embrace. Harsh lessons were learned hours after, blowing …
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