Between the unseen noises that arise outside and the rattle and creaking inside this house, the night seems to probe the darker, more frightening sections of my brain. Watching "The Doors" always puts me in mind of the weird freakiness that permeated the cultural atmosphere in 1968 America and, all too soon, dissipated by the next decades' birth.
People in the neighborhood are still firing off fireworks they bought for this year's Fourth of July celebration (I suppose) and it's strange to hear the sharp reports of small explosions tonight, echoing down the streets and alleys 'round here.
I feel as though some gigantic, dark, furry being of enormous strength is stalking the night just outside the door. And if I ventured into the inky space to the sidewalk, I'd be devoured in a blink!
It's just another slow, grinning Saturday night on the South Plains beneath the fat full moon and the distant, cold stars.
Who can say what's what or who's who? And what does it really matter anyway?