Current mood:	brr!
Current music:	tilly and the wall

Sacrifice our SUVs, not our children.
Conor! You wunderkind, my cherub - beautiful and skilled. You are the preacher-poet, master of words, at the end of a long list of ideas, messages, and stories meant to enlighten and connect. You are as amazing as you flawed. I will cry for you! You are a jester, a drunken mess scared of possibility - how your shoulders must hurt my delicate flower.

You stand on your box, but pretend it is not there. You only have one foot in the door. Teach them! Call to them and they will follow. Break the dread and fear and ignorance. They will listen to you, my wise saint.

Oh shame! Oh horror! I know how you ache. And your vantage point! What it must do to you? To look out over that sea of porcelain and plastic as you spray heartfelt words. For sure, they are lost and can't seem to vividly remember from where it is they came.

What a lonely night in Pittsburgh. I was watching the Midwest's death crawl slowly across this land - hopeful young singers decorated in front of huddled lost children, with dead eyes, longing for a reason to cry.