A town overrun by beasts. The people bar themselves inside at night and burn incense to ward away the nightmare creatures. I know the feeling.

Image of a man sitting in a small room, listening to soft ambient music and a police scanner.

Grin Verdigris.

Thanksgiving tomorrow. I think I promised to make something. But what? Hash browns would be good. Everyone loves those. Non-mash potatoes are in right now.

The miasma of the holidays does not lie as heavy upon me this year. I wonder why. The memory of Luis is still there. Some years ago, probably noted in this very blog, I contemplated giving my mom a compilation of the stories I wrote about Luis into a book for her. Hell, maybe I should just book the whole thing. The Story of Luis, interrupted many times by some dude writing about hisself. I'll title it Volume II. That'll drive people nuts.

Volume I could be the notebooks, and come out as Volume 3. The bibliography will be whatever happens between now and another ten years. Or my death, whichever comes first. Or the death of the written word, whichever comes firster.

Electrons go on strike.