Queensryche questions your querulous quixotic quinoa

Queensryche.

That’s the most ridiculous name I could come up with, a post-titling tactic I try to refrain from using.  On this particular Friday, however, my pool of creativity is too shallow for swimming.

I blame this dearth of creativity on the weather.  It’s an eerie evening: the tangible stillness that precedes a summer storm blends with a comfortable temperature to create a sensory void (can a void really be created?).  Rarely does one take note of the lack of outside stimulus, but the experience is so unique and unsettling that it is beyond me to adequately describe it.  To borrow from Carl Sagan, they should’ve sent a poet. Maybe one who’s never heard of Queensryche.

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