Far too often I forget your near future and take the smoke on the horizon as harmless cotton-candy clouds that smell almost like the fun at Rockton’s Country Fair. But now it looks like their deep pockets won’t save the koalas from the fires downunder where hell pushes through the skin of Earth grown as thin as the worn seat of old pants. Or is it inarticulate adolescent rage rising up at the sight of the bone-white bleached Great Barrier Grief that once was a living smile in kaleidoscopic color? Far too often I was dealt to play but preferred to hold hoping the game would go away if I feigned death long enough. Inaction is attractive and my leather couch, strengthened by stupid astrology, has a tighter grip of gravity than most black holes I know. The same boat we’re all in keeps capsizing to the point where those first to reboard start taking it as sport and writing rulebooks that codify who does the rocking where and when. Forgive me my forgotten prayers. Forgive me more for the ones remembered, which I love to say in the sacred, comfy depths of my cathedral leather couch.