It's all over but the typing, now, the first draft anyway.
I've spent so much time on the road lately that in notebooks was the only way to finish it.
I honestly like "heroes for ghosts" best right now, not because it is someone else's idea but because... it is the heart of the idea, after all.
Did my parents' generation trade their efforts toward a better tomorrow away to raise their children instead, my poor generation of selgiraffe distracted ghosts? Would we be better off with a shattered America that admitted what it was than the playing-card-castle mockery of wholeness that we're living with?
Which is worse, a war in the streets in front of us that can be won and moved on from or an unwinnable war both ten thousand miles away and inside our hearts, everyday, for the entire forseeable future?
Where did this trade happen, inglorious roles in a revolution for comfortable chairs on a blimpride to the end of Western Civilization?
Did it happen with the assassination of a handful of symbols of hope, one after another, or with the slow degradation of ideals and beliefs traded away for cars that don't break down and slots in the good pre-schools?
Did it happen when they killed John and Martin and Malcolm and Bobby and John again... or did it happen with the glacial advantage of a hundred million mortgage payments coming up due every month for thirty years?
How did we get so far past the point of no return?
It is a fitting title for an exploration of such ideas, really.
At least, you know, for now.
When the thing is Actually Actually Done, I might have some entirely other goddamned wild hair up my ass.
But its a motherfuck*ng great working title.