014 — Tornados
I've been lying here on the cot, staring down an imaginary highway toward a great congregation of storm clouds, those magnificent black formations that gather at the edge of the world and make a man reconsider his importance in the grand arrangement of things. I've always had an affection for tornadoes. Terrible old dragons of the sky, drawing their strength from forces we scarcely acknowledge until they come tearing across the countryside.
It's getting late, and I'm somewhere along that curious passage between wakefulness and dreaming, where the imagination begins furnishing its own scenery and the ordinary affairs of mankind seem increasingly preposterous. I've been thinking about money, among other things, and the peculiar value we've assigned to invisible quantities that pass between us through glowing electronic boxes. Quite an extraordinary arrangement when you consider it.
Anyway, somebody's calling. At eleven o'clock at night. Christ almighty.
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