Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Wyrd So Weave It
My friend and I are texting back and forth, trying to set up a time to get together: after the election, once the dust has had a chance to settle.
Assuming, of course, I write, that Big Orange hasn't shipped us both off to the camps by then.
Rhetoric aside, he texts back, he strikes me as nothing but a grifter. This is just his current grift.
Wyrd so weave it, I type, and hit Send.
Gods help us. Wyrd so weave it.
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