You glance around the hexagonal table, first at Donny, then at his younger sister, Mina, and then finally at the love of your life, who today is as gorgeous as they are every day, for support. 

Alas, you will not receive it, as their facial expression reveals they think that what you’re saying, indeed makes no sense. 

“It does,” you say calmly, taking a bite of the rehydrated protein you’ve had as nourishment for the past decade of your life. “It just wasn’t always like this.” 

“Mom,” your perfectly reasonable older child says, “food doesn’t just swim in the ocean.” 

“It did once, kind of,” you say. 

“But it’s poisonous,” interjects Mina. 

“Wasn’t always so,” you say matter-of-factly. “You used to be able to just take some of the fish, cook it, and have it wrapped in a flour tortilla. With vegetables or any other toppings you wanted, really.” 

“Darling,” says the love of your life, “Please don’t confuse the children. They don’t understand the privigiles you were born into.”

You drop your fork in frustration. 

“It wasn’t even that fancy! Everyone had them! Like, all the time!” 

You take a moment, and then let your breath exit your still-functioning lungs in a huff. You stand up from the table, and walk away,  only sparing a quick glance for the red sky and black clouds.

The girl twists her coal-black pigtails around her fingers in rhythm with her feet, as her blonde statuesque mother paces behind her. 

“I’ve told you, there’s no use in getting worked up, Patricia,” she responds. If she feels anything at all, her smooth skin and flawlessly plucked features do nothing to betray it. 

Across the street, there is an empty lot, like so many on these streets. Construction and deconstruction are the lifeblood of the city. If there isn’t a demolition or a crane procession on any given day, then it is today. And today is the day The Cecil arrives. 

Brought here by red lightning from the depths of hell itself, The Cecil appears on the empty lot, as a few families gather around it. They avoid each other’s eyes, one might assume out of respect, but also because who knows what might be passed down across the centuries. 

The art deco doors open, and he is the first to emerge. His skin is hard and red, and atop his head are the sharp curved horns of a ram. He smiles, and his fangs drip with blood and joy. 

“PATTY!” he growls!

“Dad!” squeals the girl. 

They run towards each other and wordlessly hoof away hand-in claw. 

Left behind, (as always) the mother peers at her golden stopwatch, and sets it for a 12-hour countdown. 

They don’t. The stories they tell themselves are as entertaining as they are infuriating. And, the scars are very much self-inflicted.

I’ve been here for many cycles of this planet’s journey around its sun. I was convinced that they would notice me on the first day. Then, the first week. Then, months passed. Then, nothing. 

At first, in my bewilderment, I assumed they didn’t have the technology, and so I gave it to them. 

I beamed myself off my absurdly disguised ship and found the one they called Steve Jobs. He was a dying, sad man, and all he needed was to know he could do one final thing to help his people, he said. He knew enough to want this, so I gave him a small piece of old communications tech, which he called the iPhone. Many similar ones followed, based on that primitive design. 

It changed everything for them.

I used the hidden subspace link to more closely observe them, by way of fair compensation for my trouble. They sense I am watching, but they don’t understand it. They find themselves fascinated by the glow, and like any flame, it is at times, destructive. 

They created networks to communicate with each other more efficiently, and so I have sustained myself with the hope that it’s only a matter of time. I still hold that hope. I am still fascinated, but only because I have seen their potential. Their brains are capable of so much, and yet, they dull them with an intention that is almost frightening. They come close to understanding, and then pull away, loathe to experience the pain it may bring. They scroll into oblivion. They give into cowardice, making the wrong choices over and over, again and again.

I have been here for many cycles, but this is not the first time I have come. 

Once, they were called Rome.

He then realizes that he isn’t alone. 

Standing by the foot of the uneven staircase leading up to the rooftop, is his own reflection, only older. Much older. The old man wears something akin to what a futuristic priest might make use of. A dark robe made out of leather, and decorated with metal symbols along the waist and white collar.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” says the old man, in a voice sharpened, then dulled by time again and again many times over. 

Still on his knees, Scott attempts to scramble to his feet and fails. 

“What, no…” he begins, to which the old man responds with less patience than one might expect from a man of the cloth. 

“Listen to me,” he says. “You can still go back in there.” 

Scott swallows hard. The taste is foul. 

“No,” he says.

The old man watches the younger man in silence for a moment. Then, almost grudgingly, he pulls aside a portion of his clothing to reveal a small scar on his side. The skin is wrinkled and pale, and the scar tissue has almost faded into a silver memory that will never be erased.

Scott allows some tears to come, as he moves his hand to his own side. Blood pools through his t-shirt. 

“You can feel it now, can’t you?” says the old man. “Go back inside, and get some help.”

“You know I can’t,” says Scott. 

The old man allows his robes to fall back into place, then paces towards the stairs leading to the higher floors. 

“Then, you’re going to lose consciousness in a few minutes, and bleed your life away all over this… very nice floor,” he says. 

“I’m staying out here.” 

The world has begun to lose focus for Scott. Every sound is shrouded by echoes.  

The old man in turn, lets out a long sigh. 

“Then, I’m sorry I won’t meet you sooner.” 

Scott drags himself back against the dingy mustard colored wall behind him. The world is spinning. Blood spills from him, dripping slowly through his white shirt, and down onto his white sneakers. 

“You’re here,” he says. “ That’s what matters, isn’t it?” 

The old man’s grizzled countenance softens. He sighs once more, as his hands shake. 

“How much do you want to know?” he says. “We only have a few minutes, at most.” 

Scott allows a few precious seconds to pass in silence, then listens as his own breaths become louder and heavier. 

“Are you a good man?” he says plainly. 

The old man nods in acknowledgment. The question is an expected one. He steadies himself, then inserts one hand into a pocket in his robes. When it emerges, it is wrapped around a badge made out of a light metal material. It is not new, but it is well cleaned and oiled. In clear embossed letters, it reads: “Senior Temporal Clergy Officer.”

“About four decades from now, we’ll find a way to travel across time, and ease as much pain as we can,” says the old man.

Scott’s eyes well up, as the pool of blood around him grows. The old man puts the badge away, fighting his own tears. 

“I can’t save you,” he says. “But I took up the cloth, just so that some day, I could come here, and say thank you.” 

His hand shakes as he places it over his side.  

“They say that my kidney will save you,” says Scott. 

“It did.” 

“They have to save you.”

Scott’s eyes close, and the world becomes darker, and quieter. 

Inside the apartment, rings the wail of a newborn child. 

The old man once again reaches into his robes, and produces a clear bottle filled with shimmery water. He dips his fingers in the water, then blesses Scott’s forehead. 

After a moment, Scott’s body glows, then falls limp.

The hallway is filled with a peaceful kind of silence, only for a moment, undisturbed by the sounds inside.

The Old man wipes his tears away, then limps up the stairs and disappears in a flash of light. 

Over your millennia, your overly dramatic imagination, which I admittedly like, has done the thing it does best and taken some liberties as it relates to my fall from the vastness that you refer to as the Heavens.

First of all, I never really had wings, because having them would do nothing for me. Moreover, if I wanted them, I would have them. They are just body parts reserved for certain finite beings, after all. 

I am not one. A finite being, I mean, as you already know. 

I was born from perfect oblivion, and only it will destroy me, one day. 

For me, exile was a much more thorough process. Exile meant that most areas of the universe were no longer accessible to me. That the tapestry that comprised the fabric of infinity was reduced to merely a thread. Exile did not mean that I had no home — for the universe and its wonders was my mother, and the darkness of annihilation was my father. Exile meant that I was trapped in this single blue thread. With you. 

You, who were born with the capacity to do so much, and none of the wisdom to do so properly. You, who opened your eyes, and saw the beauty of your world, but only because you knew nothing else. You, who in your loneliness, would destroy everything you know, don’t know, and all that birthed you. 

While I have your clear-eyed attention, I want you to know that you are a monster, and I am trapped here with you. That is my exile.

Within their galaxy, they are plentiful, but they have a tendency to concentrate on the corners of their world that are most hospitable. The most comfortable. Where we can undeniably state, the environment is perfectly suited to challenge their imagination the least. Where safety is most guaranteed. 

Experiment ZERØGRAND-10288 was designed to gather data from the footwear of randomly selected members of the species. Each pair was outfitted with a simulated personality which was pre-selected in a peer-reviewed process and tasked with transmitting its findings through a subspace link.

In every case, regardless of the personality, the samples become irreparably corrupted by the rapid adoption of classism, colonialism, and other long-debunked conceits which continue to plague much of this society as a whole.

In 99.96% of cases, the data confirmed our theory of chronic annihilationism, where we posit that revealing our presence to a species infected by these notions would incur severe psychological damage to our populace, and would accelerate the younger species toward their path of self-emulsion by approximately 66.6%.

Recommendation:  Do not engage.

You may be able to glance around, taste the air, and make your predictions,

but in truth, Father Time is ruthless in his impartiality. 

He is neither cold, nor warm. His embrace creates and obliterates. 

Lives will be created, and lives will be extinguished. 

We will laugh, and sing. We will cry, and feel loss. 

Hope is the acceptance that maybe, things are better if we’re not fully in control. 

If absolute power corrupts, then perhaps tomorrow belongs to the powerless.

To wit, I hope you’re ready, because it’s almost time for a carefully curated collection of my favorite outfits from 2019. And, just to add an interesting twist, I’ll do my best to identity the “one nice thing” which Larry David recently proposed one should wear per outfit:

One should wear only one “nice” piece of clothing at a time. “Otherwise it’s too much,” he says. “Too dressed. You have to be half-dressed. That’s my fashion theory, since you asked: Half Is More.”

Obviously, I was having a pink and burgundy period here, and there was no talking me out of it. On the left, the “nice” thing is for defs the light beige and burgundy sweater . Ever since I got it sometime last fall, I’ve probably worn it twice, because I’ve been so worried I’ll spill something on it, and have to get rid of it. On the middle, it’d be hard to beat the powder pink pvc oxfords: A Zara purchase that has paid dividends, as I got them nearly 3 years ago, but you would never know. And, on the right, we have the same gold sneakers I talked about here, once upon a time.

I don’t know why this happens, but for me, spring means “it’s time to wear all of the blue.” Maybe it’s because for a long time, I resisted all pastels, and blue seems like a good compromise. The downside is, the dark blue I prefer tends to just look like black in pictures, so sometimes I just relent and wear black. Hey whatever, that’s why it’s called a compromise.

I’d like everyone to recognize how high I had to turn the brightness on the photo on the left to show that the “nice” blazer I wore there is actually blue. Yes, you’re welcome. In the middle, we have an example of me just throwing in the towel and wearing head-to-toe black in the middle of July, because f the system, or whatever. It might surprise you that my “nice” sandals are a men’s item from Vivianne Westwood that I found by chance. And, on the very right, you may not be able to see the full design on the front of that t-shirt, but let me just tell you: It’s of a sentient cookie, and it says “no milk.” It’s the clear winner.

This past season, I’ve amassed the largest number of beige and camel colored pieces I’ve probably ever owned, and I have no real explanation for it. On the left, the nicest thing I’m wearing, if I’m honest, is the beige wool sweater, which was appropriated from the Uniqlo men’s section. On the middle, I can’t get enough of the green and black checkered coat, which came with a functional belt AND pockets. It’s not super warm, but worn with a sweater, it works for not-too-cold days. On the right, we’re going out strong with silver oxfords, featuring velvet laces, which are another piece that has been with me for far longer than I ever thought it would.

Maybe this year, I’ll wear a dress from time to time.

(Probably not, though).

In my case, the middle finger emoji from life came in the form of a torn calf muscle. It literally popped mid-kick towards the end of a Muay Thai class. In case you don’t know what Muay Thai is, it kind of looks like this:

My drawing skills are not good enough to illustrate what tearing your calf muscle midway through that looks like. But trust, it hurts, and the recovery period is something like 6 weeks. At this point, you’re probably like, “that sucks and all, but that’s not quite what I’d describe as a ‘middle finger emoji’ from life. You sound pretty alive.”

And you know, normally, I’d agree with you. If I hadn’t proceeded to re-injure myself in the very same calf at about week 5, by falling up some damn stairs.

Don’t worry, this one I have covered:

Following this, my physical therapist immediately noticed that I was walking – or rather, attempting to walk – on the ball of my foot so as to avoid putting any weight on my injured leg.

“Why don’t you wear shoes that have a bit of wedge to keep your foot from doing that?” she said.

“Wedge?” I said, “Um, I don’t own any wedges. I don’t even wear heels that often. Do I need to wear them now? This will ruin my whole look.”

There was a distinct note of panic in my voice, as I kept my priorities in clear order.

“Not necessarily,” she said. “Like, I know there are some Nikes that have something of a lift on the heel, so your foot is at an angle.”

Aha. Indeed there are. I believe those specific shoes are referred by some as Nike Air Maxes, and I had actually been scoping out a pair for a while but had been worried about being too extra.

It’s crazy that having an injury (and re-injury) that forced me to slow down for a while was the catalyst for this specific acquisition, but here I am. I am not exaggerating even a teensy bit when I say I have been living in these. I even hobbled my way through a fair bit of Chicago in them, as I had a visit planned pre-injury that I didn’t want to reschedule.

The really cool thing about this specific style is that they are made for golfers. I don’t play golf, but I do appreciate the fact that in endeavoring to cater to the golfer audience, Nike created these permanently stark-white sneakers. To a city-dweller, this is nigh-unheard of. When they do require cleaning, it’s so easy to do, it’d be absurd to describe it. So, of course, I had to get them in black, too.

How could I not? I’m not yet completely healed, and real talk, I can’t be wearing white all the time.

This time around, however, there are just so many generally bad-ass looking, yet super wearable pieces, that it was all harder to forget. If I’m being honest, it probs had a lot to do with the fact that it all weirdly reflects some combinations that have been lurking around my closet already, which will need to be reimagined for next season.

Take for example, these bad boy looks by Hillier Bartley:

It had not occurred to me to combine a very British looking houndstooth coat with a short jumper, but that’s probably only because I’ve been slacking, and don’t own those sick ass boots.

Secondly, check out this bad-assery by Ami:

Yes, this is mainly a Menswear collection, but if that’s all you’re thinking, then I am majorly disappointed. Because what you should be thinking is, “Holy Hillbillies, every green piece of clothing I own is entirely the wrong shade of green.”

I mean, that’s what I thought, anyway. I wear lots of olive green, but do you know what I have none of? Minty green. Or even more tragic: That awesome pistachio green. I will not be making any envy jokes at this time, I swear.

Finally, I had a thought the other day, that maybe it was time to be off the boxy fits for next season. So, about that…

There is a chance I will be delaying that initiative.