Skunk. Wednesday, October 14, 2015. Valley in front of where the big, fancy white house used to be. Hit by a car. It always sounds like it's raining. Widows, ghosts, and lonesome train whistles. When there are no more answers, the only thing left is questions. Natty Bumpo stuffed and whimsically mounted for your mild, knowing bemusement. The sheer pleasure of terror and transience. Don't hide your candle under a bushel, use it to burn their playhouse down.