I am sitting here in my living room At the very tail end of winter. It is 68° outside. Having grown tired of scribbling in my journal, I am reading Billy Collin’s new Collection of poetry entitled Water Water. A grotesque film about giant fighting robots performs visual vomit on my television screen, while my wife ignores it all and consumes a microcosm of entertainment on her phone. Probably cats. All that’s missing is heavy metal belting out of the stereo. Or, maybe a concert pianist Chopping away on a baby grand. It’s an almost supernatural confluence of dichotomies.
