I was reading Into the Sun, about some thugs who violently take what they want and say it's all free, and I thought of the ICE thugs, and I thought of the potus and the genocide, and I thought of the chicken butcher of Bucktown who brought his giant thug to throttle me for complaining about the gusting stench of rotting death that engulfed us in the alley behind the garage where Grace's dad hung himself. I never thought of that before, me being strangled next to the the garage where Grace's dad died.