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About Budapest

Now, don’t get me wrong, it ain’t all roses. Some stories gut ya. Girl I knew, strung out, lost her kid – system screwed her. Broke my damn heart. “What foul dust floated in the wake,” Malick’s line fits – she was drownin’ in that dust. Hated seein’ that. But then – she’d still crack jokes, call me “old man” with that smirk. Tough as nails.

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Finally, I get a hold of the power company. They’re like, “Yeah, we’ll send someone.” I’m thinking, “Great, but when?” Meanwhile, I’m stuck listening to hold music that sounds like a cat walking on a piano.

The Late Great Fr. David Balas, O. Cist