if i were a better writer, i might be able to translate into words the feelings that one feels when playing with an infant who has endured the seemingly unendurable and enjoys nothing more than playing with his pops, oblivious to the meaning of the sights and sounds emanating from the television and radio detailing the excruciating details of the aftermath of a natural disaster that will likely mean nothing more to him than being event that greatly diminished the chance that any of his playmates are named katrina.

it really is an impossible to articulate mix of emotions that i think might have something to do with the infinite promise and resiliance of The Young.

or maybe i just haven’t had enough sleep lately because odin seems to be gearing up for another growth spurt.