In lieu of writing another post this morning, I am driving to Memphis with my wife. There, we will go to Costco and engage in other forms of entertainment. If I’m so possessed later in the day, after we return home, I will write more here. Otherwise, I will write more here tomorrow. But, in the interest of snarcofulating (a neologism that just seems to fit this fine Friday morning) the creative juices, let me just write this:
He looked at the picture, taken forty-three years earlier. The face of the man in the photo was earnest and angry, the furrows in his brows testament to youthful passion, his raised fist punctuated the devotion to his cause, whatever it was so very long ago.
Raising his eyes to the mirror, Camber saw a different man, a defeated man who had grown comfortable with his shame. He mulled it over in his mind. What was it that snuffed that flame? How did that rage die? How did the bravado and that steadfast commitment to justice turn to spilled soup, so easily wiped away with dirty rags?
