A strange lassitude has stolen over the Commonwealth.
The houses are all lit up in garish purple and noxious blue...there isn't a silent television within a hundred miles.
Outside the Earth's shadow has swallowed the moon turning that marvel in the dark blood red.
It would seem no one has seen this save humble Elias.
Meanwhile we might be just may be in the last hour of the fabled Curse of the Bambino...at the moment the score is Saint Louis squat, Red Sox three.
In an hour this town may well go up like Mount Saint Helens.
In an hour the moon will stop bleeding.
It is also an hour upon which to reflect that even the most ancient injustices come to judgement.
Health to the Sox.
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