Batten.

We’re living in a pipebomb tidalwave hypno-caffeinated episteme. Gnarly-footed hopheads collude with drunken trustfund kids, while moto-mad redactors connive to salivate in presidential teacups. Early visions of promise are retarded, stretched too thin, then pounded into polvo by perma-cool boots of academic nervous ninnies. Our questions are bad and our answers are worse. Glamour and its shaded emptiness winnow us into yellow pan-seared versions of our sycophantic doppelganging effigies. Early returns do not bode well. In fact it’s cold as hell in hearts of space. And light…well, you know that’s dwindling. Batten, dear hearts, batten. The ride is getting bumpy and our skeletons are soft.