In Which Your Humble Blogger hocks about numbers again.
In Which Your Humble Blogger contemplates how words have different connotations over time, and for different people, too.
In Which Your Humble Blogger weeps, as usual.
In Which Your Humble Blogger disagrees, respectfully, with all the best Justices.
In Which Your Humble Blogger isn't bovvered.
In Which Your Humble Blogger feels that ultimately, it may be easier to stop police brutality than to control the semiotics of symbols.
In which Your Humble Blogger continues to maintain that the economic crisis is rooted in the public health crisis.
In Which Your Humble Blogger has no plan, but is aware that despair isn't a plan, either
In Which Your Humble Blogger is wrong about most things, most of the time, but about the future almost always.
In Which Your Humble Blogger hopes that the moment where we might have sent troops passed during the days this note was half-finished.
