Your sister was there. And your mother too.
We watched together, the whole family.
It was hot in the poor places.
Houdini, murdered by suicide.
And just desserts. Or, "If I had any idea of what justice is, it would be more than I deserve," mumbles Oldham.
And so. The champions reign. The old blue lady. The cobbler's wife. Son of a television repair man. An orphan raised in the seclusion of the mountain retreat. Champions.
All of them. And yet. The rest of us. Our fists white, bloodless. In solidarity.
And again, so. That inscrutable joy returning when we rebuild his transgression under a flag of defiance,
into a gift we don't unwrap, nor desire to - maybe accepting, some of us, of Eliot:
"because i do not hope to turn again
because i do not hope
because i do not hope to turn"
And finally, then, so. Two unrepentant times around the sun. We begin again. What's left of his legacy coalesces across the continent and goes on. the. attack. our telekinetic vision, repaired, guides the ball away from the line on which we stand, the one we've drawn ourselves. then we just start running, screaming, certain of the Totality of this movement. we know of another, outside of the their sights, doing as we are doing. so we give the moment over to him. but there is no him. it is us. the moment is passed again. and by now, we know
not to hope
to turn again.