The days are wrapping up quicker, and I'm finding that somewhere between turning on my headlights, and letting my head fall on the pillow, there is this lingering unspoken angst and tension that rials my heart strings. And it gets harder to breathe, even though I haven't smoked a Lucky Strike in over two months. The days are getting stranger, and soon the common good will be antithetical to what my God tells me; it will make my Bible blacklisted. I want love. I want my rifles. I want people to know God and live. This is just a puddle of sitting thoughts that have rushed in after a long day as I sit in my office, on the couch, writing momentary thoughts on a mobile phone.

These times are the end of the day. These times are what always get referred to. These times are the hardest parts, because days long filled with conviction are tired and worn, and have no real place to call home. Yet.

It's times like these we learn to live again.