Perhaps in no little part due to my hammered-up lower jaw, I let the holidays simply unroll (albeit with some effort before).
Here’s a scruffy shot of my brother cooking Christmas dinner, while I shiver, and we talk about Marx’s assertion that people make their own history but not in self-selected circumstances, family camping trips and the collapse of the American Empire.
Afterwards, he hung up his beer cans on the line with clothespins. That’s some quality family time.
Winter solitude —
in a world of one color
the sound of wind.