Living Proof

Get the Picture

Another storm. Epic. A city to boot. Maybe the last storm was too thick to see this unidentifiable inhabitance. Its cold. At least it is to us. We run straight into town to seek work, but if it turns out to be home, we might end up gravestone shopping instead. We're much too wild of a family to be wired in. We squeezed out our soaking blankets after watching the second storm light up the sky like the ultimate dubstep sold-out festival main headliner would dream of. Not a bad display. The homeless shelter we were directed to was everything but friendly. I took over the whole conversation of what, where, and why. I told the lady in charge that we are fleeing mobsters. She put us in separate beds. The sheets smelled like bleach. I'm begging for all peaceful beings, not just Jesus, to help us escape this massacre. Did we just get booted out of our dream world? Should we have left the fish to burn? What gives? Where is the glitch here? I love it when Jesus only answers with a laugh. It leaves so much room for unspoken greetings of the obvious. I'm getting us off this carousel of complacency as soon as the last blanket dries. Gee whiz, that laugh.