In our town, in the sweet spot of our county, we were like dark lumps of flesh moving through plasma. In a thousand years, perhaps, our descendants might evolve into creatures with a morsel of understanding at their core, some insight to untangle their gnarled dilemma, but for now, at this moment of our unevolved history, we were blessed with no skill for diagnosing our withered, exhausted state. We groped about, and if there was a harm’s way, we plunged into it so deeply that we were smeared up to the neck with the very stuff, the greasy paste, that was slowly killing us. We were tired, is what we said, which was like saying we were alive. Of course we were tired, who wasn’t?