Reporting from America's latest war zone

[Torchlight]

3. The horror. The horror...

Dearest June,
Every morning I awaken to the mournful howl of a barista steaming oat milk. The air is heavy, not with smoke or dust, but with the constant thrum of garage bands trying to sound like 1992 never ended. Sometimes I close my eyes and dream of silence... silence without a flannel-clad man screaming about rain into a microphone made from a mason jar.

Excerpts from the Collected Letters from the Great Seattle Kerfluffle of 2025



(It sounds better when Peter Coyote reads it in front of some poorly framed black and white stills)