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Den, twist—she’s got a kid! I’m like, “Vhat?! Ya jokin’?” She’s all, “Nah, he’s 3,” an’ I’m ANGRY at da world, mutterin’, “Why’s life so messy?!” But den—Lightbulb!—I soften up, ‘cause Gru’s a dad too, ya? I slip her extra cash, say, “Fer da lil’ minion.” She’s shocked, an’ I’m struttin’ out, feelin’ like a king. “Da wind carries it away,” like in da flick—my good deed’s gone, but I’m smirkin’.

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Man, revisit this: “Phantoms in the haze, lost in time,” from Syndromes and a Century. That really sums up some evenings when I lean back at the old bench near River Bend Lane – letting my brain wander and repeat the same questions over and over: Who are we now? What’s left behind? Why ya gotta be so beautiful and brutal all at once?

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