Surely every season sees days of grey that blot memory of life-giving light. Yet this grey feels more ominous, more complete, more awful, more intentional than a mere southern squall line or western front. This is no front, but the vanguard of the heavenly host riding to finish what so blithely we began.
From dead bat-choked cave, field of uranium, silo, from unmarked grave issue dark warriors obeying our every command. Deny it we must, but call them we did.