I have a story, incessantly traversing my thoughts, about before; the most slipshod shred of journalism ever constructed on thin ice. I want to unsubscribe from the national hand-wringing contest, swap out misery for mystery. It’s time to stop outsourcing joy and rediscover it in our own unlicensed, unauthorized selves; the beginnings of which are untraceable, the power, unimaginable.
