There will be fire.

Toward the end of November, some of my friends gathered at Colin's parents house. We sat outside, shivered, sipped scotch, told stories, made fire, kicked Pippen Padfoot in the face, threatened to throw the sneeve into the pool, and contemplated swimming in the pond. And we were all glad, because i was one year closer to something horrible like debilitating memory loss or incontinence or holding a really bad metaphysics.

We stood on the dock in fine lighting. We tried to get closer to the fire. We took super sketchy black and white pictures (or i did, at least). We ate Christmas lights after posing lovingly with them (or Brent did, at least). And there was laughter. Then i went inside and played with Colin's dog.