self-obsession has proven to be a more valuable commodity than civility, caring, and major league baseball combined. loathing, in all forms, has commandeered the hearts and minds of the masses. i’m strapped securely into a plane with questionable wings piloted by two idiots from new jersey that are all hopped up on mescaline. out of the left window, my eye is caught by an almost blinding light nestled between what appears to be a small forest shaped like a polar bear (what makes it a polar bear – we may never know) and a small town that takes too many unofficial holidays for its own good. shutting down the mill to celebrate the re-opening of the post office seems a bit on the excessive side, yet there’s something about their whimsical culture that you can’t help but fall in love with. anyhow, to make a long story short… as fate would have it, the pilots actually were on drugs. the plane crashed 50 miles from anywhere and the only survivors were me, 2 dudes named randy and the annoyingly long-armed veronica. we split everyone’s carry-ons in a draft format in which i acquired an ipad that didn’t work, a blank journal without a pen and a photo of a tombstone with the name Florence Lillian , with the following inscription: “it’s me and the moon…”. i can’t wait to get back home.