If you walk the streets of the isthmus after dark, say around midnight, you'll be treated to a mixture of sounds and scents so vivid that the lack of visuals may pass your perception without a second thought. The earthy, silty smell of lake Mendota or, if the wind is blowing in the opposite direction, you may be treated to the mucky, feted aroma of Monona. Considering the constricted width of Mid-Madison, you're probably getting some percentage of each. On the surface the rip

The hovering text on the wall scrawled by God’s bejeweled pinky finger reads as such, “pour out your soul to an empty room.” “Regal me,” He thunders; a shockwave that causes your twisted fish eye to roll in it’s socket while seething over the poorly lit and worse attended venue. Once again you hear the bird. The one who perches on your moldy sill and sounds off at all hours. You’ve told him to shut the fuck up in every language you know curses in, but he only speaks what ever