I sometimes wonder if PAX is a thing I will ever be able to contain in my head. The comedown is usually pretty hard: I spend a lot of time sitting quietly and staring forward, dimply aware that a child is tugging on whatever textiles I have managed to drape over my vile and bulbous frame. I spend three or four days at such a level of physical and psychic availability that for days afterward everything is just sort of ringing and raw. I have said on many occasions that we are not well suited to this task, and perhaps could not be, as men who spent their formative years in abject terror and subjugation; we are people suffused with a natural unease, each of us literally medicated for our demons. But noone else wants to do it, or noone else can. It's possible that our damage has pounded us unto whatever shape is necessary for this. I'd be lying if I said I understood it.
