Yes, chil­dren, gather ’round as the truth is related unto you. The Flux­Mu­seum takes time and patience to inhabit. Becom­ing recently acquainted in the spir­i­tual sense, lo’ I say, not yet in the phys­i­cal or astro­phys­i­cal, with Cecil Tou­chon — the amaz­ing and lit­eral exis­tence of life and lies. Flux. It is. I am.

“I don’t know where he’s going, I know she’ll help him if she can.”

“Then she’s dat­ing a fugi­tive and I can’t help either one of them.”

“I used to won­der why she never talked about you. Now I know.”

“Where does she meet these guys?”

A hulk­ing con­ver­sa­tion if I ever eaves­dropped upon one.

Don’t wait for flux, begin your day now.

c