This day wasn’t chaos but it was force. It was volume. It was beauteous torment turned so taut as to stink of formula and, perhaps, there was something formulaic in the swelling and charges and screams and I could sit idly on my Wednesday’s child and cross reference a periodic table of post-prodded agit punks defying local pride for the high crime of conceptual art to better relay a sensible table of context but I won’t because to do so would undermine just how good and goddamn reassuring it was to sink my teeth deep into the neck of the storm. It just felt right, you know? Like I had a place in my time.
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