So you filled your hands

Enormity doesn't mean really enormous. It means incredibly horrible.

If I was at all together at the moment, I would relate this post to Regarding the Pain of Others, Susan Sontag's final book, which examines the act of observing and processing representations of suffering. I am not, in fact, together right now, but it struck me as interesting how this applies to fiction: that if we can't do anything about the enormity, we're more willing to listen and watch.

It's batyatoon's fault that now I have to write the story that leads up to this:

Epimetheus tackles his brother, and his feet go flying off the ground. Prometheus is laughing, and the sun blinds them both in the moment before they fall back. Some things are certain, even this early on, and they'll always be young and the world will go on forever.

Oh my Greeks.

Shoot. This makes three I'm juggling now.