The Explanation
(for those who require one)

And, of course, that is what all of this is -- all of this: the one song, ever changing, ever reincarnated, that speaks somehow from and to and for that which is ineffable within us and without us, that is both prayer and deliverance, folly and wisdom, that inspires us to dance or smile or simply to go on, senselessly, incomprehensibly, beatifically, in the face of mortality and the truth that our lives are more ill-writ, ill-rhymed and fleeting than any song, except perhaps those songs -- that song, endlesly reincarnated -- born of that truth, be it the moon and June of that truth, or the wordless blue moan, or the rotgut or the elegant poetry of it. That nameless black-hulled ship of Ulysses, that long black train, that Terraplane, that mystery train, that Rocket '88', that Buick 6 -- same journey, same miracle, same end and endlessness."
-- Nick Tosches, Where Dead Voices Gather

Observation on the World Series

It's strange. Here we have a moment that more than a few people . . . including a good many who are no longer with us . . . have been waiting and waiting 86 long years for: The Red Sox have finally won the World Series. There it is.

And yet the moment seems so . . . anti-climactic for some reason. It's as though we all expected it to be somehow more dramatic; more like this season's ALCS than the brutal, almost mechanistic four-game thrashing they just delivered unto the Cardinals.

Still . . . victory is victory, huh

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