Ides of July

Last summer it poured around this time and appropriately as if preordained, an off-remark said in total jest completely backfired. In a soaked crowd, the words first wafted overheard before sinking below flesh. The emperor surrounded by his senators fell. Unfortunately, the knife shone red in my hand.

And just as quickly the connection severed quite unexpectedly. Who knew the repercussions would be so totalitarian? But the proverbial handwriting on the wall started to drip even more blood. No need to fight the inevitable winds of change as it were because his final message required no translation at all.

Et tu, Brute, Hurtus Maximus begone.

So strange then it is, not having to shepherd the flock as the carnival outside sort of reflects the controlled mayhem inside. Yet the clock ticks slightly off still, probably the residue of habit. Six years straight tends to do that.