I remember summer evenings in the Midwest, watching the stormclouds roll in: huge, black, roiling monsters, a wall of stygian darkness, illuminated from within by a thousand crawling legs of lightning, occasionally skittering across the surface, still silent in the distance. They would come after a day of stultifying heat, heralded first by a feeling, a drop in temperature, a sudden cooling of the air, just seconds before the wind picks up. And you could smell it. I remember the hair on the back of my neck standing up and my pulse rising in anticipation. The feeling of the storm in the air and the distant shadow looming on the horizon, often blotting out the setting sun. I remember breathing it in and feeling a stirring inside, resonating to the pure chaos roiling overhead. It was magnificent.
For some reason, though, I could never get people to see violence with intent in the same light.
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I remember summer evenings in the Midwest, watching the stormclouds roll in: huge, black, roiling monsters, a wall of stygian darkness, illuminated from within by a thousand crawling legs of lightning, occasionally skittering across the surface, still silent in the distance. They would come after a day of stultifying heat, heralded first by a feeling, a drop in temperature, a sudden cooling of the air, just seconds before the wind picks up. And you could smell it. I remember the hair on the back of my neck standing up and my pulse rising in anticipation. The feeling of the storm in the air and the distant shadow looming on the horizon, often blotting out the setting sun. I remember breathing it in and feeling a stirring inside, resonating to the pure chaos roiling overhead. It was magnificent.
For some reason, though, I could never get people to see violence with intent in the same light.