Anger is a dirty word.

Somewhere between political correctness and passive aggression, it was decreed that outright rage must be channelled. Reframed. Somehow remade into something less confronting and more palatable.

The strange in between is here. We have arrived to the stormy half moon fulcrum that dangles us precariously between solar and lunar eclipse. Neither here nor there, travelling between past and future without anchor or orientation by design. This place is both portal and portent, shimmering like cut glass and razor sharp on its edges.