it was a damned cold night. the type of night where a slight breeze feels like an icy slap in the face.

my local dive bar offered a warm refuge against the cold. i ordered a shot of whiskey to warm my innards while i took in the terrible punk band that was warming up. the lead guitarist worked through barely-in-tune scales and nodded, satisfied.

i gasped.

there was that @ symbol that i've given $20 to the year prior, hiding behind its bandmates as it tweaked knobs on a mixing board. the first set began and it shrieked into the microphone, the ennui of years pouring out and assaulting the crowd.

i ordered a second shot and settled in for the night.

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