01/08/2015 10:51:26 ¶ ●

## Episode 71 - The Registry of Middle School Crushes

I trip the light fantastic, and then I offer to help it up. And when the light fantastic is halfway up I let go, and it falls again. Me and the light fantastic do not get along at all.

Welcome to Night Vale.

To start us off, a follow-up on a recent story:

Local ne'er-do-well and five-headed dragon Hiram McDaniels will be brought to trial for his attempts to assassinate Mayor Cardinal and take over Night Vale’s city government. This trial is already being referred to as the “trial of the century.” And, indeed, could be referred to as the “trial of all time,” because Night Vale has never had a trial before.

Judicial matters are usually handled directly by the Secret Police, whose judgment is above question – even when it’s really bad and obviously wrong – or, in some extreme cases, handled by the City Council itself, who might relegate the wrongdoer to detention in the abandoned mine shaft outside of town, or might just eat the wrongdoer. It depends on whether the City Council has had a heavy lunch.

But Hiram McDaniels is huge, and a dragon, so the City Council and the Secret Police are both declining to get too close to him. As a result, for the first time ever, we will have a fair and open trial here in Night Vale in front of a jury of Hiram’s peers.

Speaking of which, Night Vale invites any dragons to come down to the courthouse to serve as his peers. Failing that, any multi-headed beings are welcome – although I can’t immediately think of any of those except obviously deer, and deer can’t take part in juries because of their profound belief in egalitarian anarchism.

Pamela Winchell, former Night Vale mayor and current director of emergency press conferences, will serve as the prosecuting attorney, and Hiram’s gold head will be acting in his own defense – as well as the defense of the other three heads accused. His fifth head, the violet one, who had secretly been working to stop the other heads, is not charged, and is expected to take the witness stand against his same-body brethren.

Updates on this exciting legal story will continue as we all try to figure out what “law” means outside of the context of the despotic control of shadowy government forces.

And now, listeners, from matters of news to matters of personal urgency. I present to you: A Heist.

Here is the mission: to retrieve a top-secret document.

Here are the players:

- Myself, of course: Mindful speaker in the mindless night.
- Carlos: Scientist extraordinaire, extraordinary scientist, great hair.
- Steve Carlsberg: Jerk. Good father…maybe. Don’t tell him that.
- Abby: My sister, whom I have not spoken with in quite a while, but whom I am hoping to speak with more.
- Old Woman Josie: Opera aficionado, and friends with powerful and forbidden beings who are handy with a lock pick…and who claim to know a thing or two about hacking.
- Finally, and foremost, of course, little Janice: My niece, and the second-most important person in my life. She is the leader of our mission. She is the reason we are all involved.

This, then, is the team. Here, then, is the target:

City Hall. Specifically, the Hall of Public Records – one of the most secure and dangerous places in Night Vale, where all public information is kept hidden from a public that might misuse it. Few have gone in and survived. No one has ever managed to remove – or even view – a single document from it.

So, why are we trying? Why risk our lives to do what is, by all accounts, impossible?

Because within that hall of records is the Registry of Middle School Crushes, a ledger that documents every slight swoon of our young citizens’ love-sick hearts. This registry, like all municipal documents, is constantly updated via invasive satellite mind-scanning. Janice wants us to retrieve the Registry of Middle School Crushes and destroy it. I will not ask why. We don’t have to ask why. We know that a family member is in need, and we act accordingly.

The plan? Hahahahahaha…but that would give it away.

More soon, whether the powers that be like it or not.

First, a word from our sponsors.

Today’s sponsor is Venom Box, the subscription service that sends you a box of venomous creatures every month. Last month’s theme was “Hidden, But Deadly.” And those who survived that will love this month’s theme: “Fanged and Impossibly Quick.”

Venom Box has been sending me samples and, boy! Have I almost died! I have almost died…a lot!

They are very dangerous, these boxes. Each individually curated Venom Box is literally a box of toxic and aggressive creatures. That’s…what they are. It’s not even a secure box; it’s a hastily-constructed cardboard box! Often, the creatures escape before you can open the Venom Box. The only thing worse than opening a box to find venomous creatures inside, is opening a box that is supposed to have venomous creatures inside…and instead, finding nothing. Then, looking around your home, feeling [*gasp*] is that a tickle on your toe? You were imagining that, right?

To get a free sample, just do nothing. Or, try to prevent it. Actively try to keep the Venom Box out, it doesn’t matter. Whatever you do, you are subscribed to Venom Box every month from here on out.

Good luck!

This has been a word from our sponsors.

And now, traffic.

A woman walks into a bar. Presumably, she did not just appear there. Presumably she opened the door from the outside and entered it. Presumably she drove to the bar. Presumably she had obtained the car she used to drive to the bar somewhere, presumably with money. Presumably she had received that money somehow. She presumably had spent days, months, even years before this moment. Presumably she was born at some point, to a mother – presumably. Presumably she was a child once. There had been years spent in which she could not completely feed herself. There were years in which she was smaller, and stayed all day in rooms where adults taught her to be similar adults to the adults they were. There was a first kiss, nights spent in terror of the nights to come, the first vestiges of independence, moving out, finding a job, a decision – at some point – to go to the bar. Presumably.

“Can I have a drink?” she said to the bartender.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the bartender. “This is the end of my shift. Ed will be out in a moment and he’ll be able to help you.”

The bartender left the bar. Presumably he opened the door. Presumably he got into a car. Presumably he drove home, the radio on and playing him through the soft-focus darkness of hot night. Presumably he had a bed somewhere, got into it, slept, and – presumably – dreamed. Presumably he grew older, day by day, and looked at each day as a missed opportunity to live a life that was in no way better than the life he was living, but just different. Presumably he edged toward death, fearing losing what he had, regretting ever attaining it. There was a last kiss, everything was forgotten, but in pieces, and in the most painful order. New things were learned slowly, and in the least helpful order. A basket of fruit indicating a sentiment too weak, communicated too late, to a person who was already gone. Presumably.

This has been traffic.

Back to the main event. Plans run apace for our heist from the City Hall Public Records room. The obstacles are grave, and myriad.

First, there was simply getting past the guard at the door of City Hall. Well, the guard doesn’t stop anyone, so as I said, it’s…getting past is pretty simple.

Then, there is avoiding the City Council, who lurk within City Hall. A many-form municipal entity, waiting for citizens to civically devour. You will have to tread carefully to avoid it.

Then, there are the stairs to the basement where the records are kept. These are very dangerous. Thousands of people die falling down stairs every year, so…we will have to take care not to trip.

Beyond that is the thick vault door, combination unknown, immune to detonation or heat. Rumor has it that the door to the records room could survive a nuclear explosion. Rumor has it that it already has.

Past the door, information becomes more piecemeal. Rumor becomes our only guide. There is, apparently, a grid of lasers – carefully calibrated so as to look mesmerizing, and cause an intruder to stop and watch them, thus failing to complete her mission.

There are pressure sensors in the floor, heat sensors in the hall, thought sensors in all of our brains.

The security is diabolical. But, we have devised a plan past all of it. Which, again, I can’t tell you. I’m sorry. Saying the plan on the radio would make it tricky to successfully perform it without being caught. But it’s really good. I promise.

We will make sure Janice gets the Registry of Middle School Crushes so she can destroy it. We just will never be able to tell you how.

And now, the answer to last week’s audio “Spot the Differences” quiz. Of course, the two audio scenes we set for you were quite similar. Perhaps, even, at an aural glance, identical. But there were eight specific differences. Did you spot them all? Let’s find out! Here were the differences:

1. The shadow of the howling man is smiling in one scene, but missing in the other.
2. There are shrouded figures in the grass in both scenes, and they look identical. But in the first scene, they are watching…while in the second scene, they are listening.
3. Only the first scene scares me.
4. The cow has one extra spot in the first scene.
5. The cow has all of its blood in the first scene.
6. The howling man is howling in both scenes.
7. We don’t know why he is howling.
8. Maybe it’s because of his shadow?
9. What does the second man have to do with anything?
10. The child is absent from both scenes.

How did you do? If you missed any, don’t worry. The Secret Police will be arriving soon to take you to a reeducation camp. And after that, you definitely won’t be messing up any more puzzles, or messing up anything – or doing anything – ever again.

Oh, I just can’t resist! Our brilliant plan is too brilliant not to share. I mean, it doesn’t even matter that much, I guess, because the plan is already in motion. What could the powers that be possibly do?

So, first, Old Woman Josie had her beings (who cannot legally be called angels) hack the thought sensors and the mind-scanning satellites so that instead of playing our current thoughts, they play a loop of thoughts about which sandwich place is our favorite (obviously, the Mario’s Very Authentic Italian Ice Cream sub sandwich place at the mall…obviously).

Then Abby, Steve, and Carlos all simply walked past the guard. Again, the guard doesn’t stop anyone. Simple.

Abby used a series of mirrors and clip lights in the doorway to City Council chambers to create the illusion of an empty hallway for the monstrous municipal members within, thus allowing the wonderful Carlos and the foolish…ly brave Steve to go down the stairs, carefully, and without tripping.

Those two, and those two alone, entered the basement. There, Carlos used a mathematical formula that he had arrived at scientifically to deduce the combination of the great vault door. Once inside, of course, Carlos would become instantly fascinated by the laser grid, determined to understand it. Which is why it was Steve’s important job to keep him focused and moving.

They then put on harnesses, which Janice had spent the last several weeks making from a home cat burglar kit she got as a prize in a box of Honey Nut Flakey-Os, and which she had lined with bags of frozen peas to throw off the heat sensors. And that is where they are now, dear listeners. Creeping ever closer to the Registry of Middle School Crushes, and to a triumphant end to a triumphant plan.

Nothing can…oh, no! Oh, no! Somehow it seems that the City Council has discovered the plan! I don’t know how that could have happened! Steve and Carlos are still in the basement! They’re still in danger! Still right behind the closed vault door! Where can they run? How can they hide?

I will try to sort out what to do. And in the meantime, I must take you to the weather.

[“My Postcard” by Toys and Tiny Instruments]

We have returned, listeners, to a heist complete.

This was not a heist of action, at all. It was not a heist of diamond-tipped drills or advanced electronics, no. This was a heist of words. A heist of fiction. It was a heist of storytelling, and it was magnificent. For there was no hacking by Josie and her friends, no mirror held by Abby, no absurd mathematical formula devised by Carlos, and no Steve. Thank God, no Steve.

There was none of that. Carlos, Old Woman Josie, Abby…and Steve…are safe at home – having never left their beds in this warm, still night. I created their action, I created their danger, with my words. And I delivered that danger to you. That was the entire plan. All of it. It was me, here at this microphone, telling you a story. A story about a successful entrance to the well-protected vault of the Hall of Public Records hahaha.

And, in response to my story, the City Council rushed to the records hall, flung open the vault door, deactivated the sensors and alarms, and charged in to capture Steve and Carlos – but those two were, of course, not there to be captured.

The only person who was there, having avoided the danger of the stairs by safely taking the ADA-compliant elevator down, and having waited, patiently, in the shadows for the City Council to rush by enraged, then open the door of the vault for her, was a very clever 11 year-old in a stealth wheelchair of her own design.

She waited. And when they had passed, she followed quietly after them. And while they searched, roaring for intruders that weren’t there, she slipped the Registry of Middle School Crushes from its shelf, rolled herself back to the elevator, and was gone before the Council had even an inkling that they were chasing only figments of my imagination.

It was, despite all of my misleading words, a two-person heist. An uncle (who can tell one hell of a story), and a niece (who can come up with one hell of a plan).

Janice took the registry out into the Scrublands. And there, in an arroyo that has not seen water in many years, she lit it on fire and watched the smoke pass up through the evergreen leaves of the Joshua trees.

I don’t need to know why she wanted it destroyed, although perhaps I could guess. But I won’t guess. I only know that she needed my help, and so I helped her.

Before everything, before even humans, there were stories. A creature at a fire conjuring a world with nothing but its voice and a listener’s imagination. And now, me, and thousands like me, in little booths and rooms and mics and screens all over the world, doing the same for a family of listeners, connected as all families are, primarily by the stories we tell each other.

And after, after fire, and death, or whatever happens next, after the wiping clean or the gradual decay, after the after…when there are only a few creatures left, there will be one at a fire, telling a story to what family it has left. It was the first thing, and it will be the last.

Stay tuned next for more stories being told to you all of the time – whether you are aware of them or not.

And from whatever fiction it is that we happen to be living together tonight, goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.

Today’s proverb: I had a dream in which cow-sized pugs existed. I was on a train, and one loped along outside my window. I’m sorry your dreams aren’t as good.

15/08/2015 11:13:08 ¶ ●

## Episode 72 - Well of Night

Kill it with kindness. And if that fails, kill it with sharp sticks or knives.

Welcome to Night Vale.

[Cecil yawns] I…I didn’t sleep well last night. I imagine none of you slept well last night, what with all the chanting, and stomping? I could see from my window a stark, white V, opening skyward, just to the south of our apartment, with its inverted cone, long shadows cutting in and out, a vertical static. I could hear a distant repeated chant.

“Bom-bom-bom! Bom-bom-bom!”

Something like that.

Again, that’s not so unusual. When you live in a city long enough, you get used to the nighttime noise of car alarms, or howls of stray cats, or the occasional carolers crouching by your front door singing about some new god they invented in a night club. It’s basic urban life.

But this chant was different. I first heard only the shouts of one or two people.

“Ba-da-bah! Ba-da-bah!”

Whatever the chant was.

I figured they were simply college kids who discovered some dinosaur bones, which I understand is a thing college kids are into these days.

Carlos was able to sleep through the sounds. He can sleep through anything – alarm clocks, heavy construction, even that godawful screeching the sunrise makes – but I was in and out of light sleep all night! By just before dawn, the handful of chanters had grown to a large crowd.

What was that chant?

“Bah-bah-bah! Wah-wah-wah!”

I couldn’t tell, but there must’ve been dozens of them! Well, hopefully they keep it down tonight.

Let’s have a look now at the Community Calendar.

Wednesday night, the staff of Dark Owl Records will be holding a seance to try to reach the ghost of Taylor Swift. They’ll be lighting candles and holding hands and playing Swift’s newest album, “1879,” which was named after the year she was born into a human body. For the fifteenth time.

Record shop owner Michelle Nguyen says it’s important that they get a hold of Swift’s ghost so they can ask her detailed questions about what kind of music she was into back then, because…well, the Dark Owl staff is running out of music that no one else has heard of. They want to find music that no longer exists, so they can get into that.

Nguyen also wants to trash-talk Emil Burliner, who was Swift’s ex-boyfriend and who totally stole Swift’s idea to invent the gramophone.

“He hated music,” Nguyen said. “He had some pretty fly ties, so like…I could see him inventing a pocket square, but not a turntable. Ugh! Did I just use the word ‘fly?'” Nguyen added.

The seance will be from 10:00pm to 2:00am, and there will be a live DJ, snacks, whispering, and darkness.

Thursday afternoon, the Night Vale Community Players will hold auditions for their fall production of David Mamet’s “Oleanna.” Director Chandra Richardson wants to take a fresh approach to this controversial play, stating that she plans on removing all of the words and stage directions. Instead, simply presenting a stage full of actors juggling and/or eating things like candles, and fruit, and rodents. Richardson says that the original 1992 play took a literal approach to the broad topics of gender and power, and she wants to find a more challenging metaphorical approach to this difficult material.

“Talking in English directly about a subject is a very 1990s thing to do. I think we can update this story by stripping it of its language and narrative, and just juggling, and eating things,” Richardson said.

Hopeful actors should meet at 2:00pm at the Rec Center, and bring their own candles and rodents. Fruit will be provided. No previous acting experience or understanding of any specific language is necessary.

Friday night is the Night Vale Alive Fireworks Spectacular, put on each month by a Vague, Yet Menacing, Government Agency. Representatives for the event, speaking through other representatives, who we met in disguise, using code names, in an undisclosed location, said this month’s fireworks spectacular promises to be the largest and most exciting of the year.

“You won’t want to miss it!” the representative whispered from behind a granite-colored Dodge Grand Caravan. “But unfortunately,” the representative added, “you will have to miss it, because it is a covert and secret fireworks show. Everyone must stay inside. And close all doors. And window coverings.”

So, prepare a picnic and gather the family into the panic room this Friday night!

Saturday is already over before it’s even begun. Where does the time go?

Oh, that’s not even a metaphor. This coming Saturday ended weeks ago, but no one knows where it went. Or why.

An update on last evening’s weird lights and chanting:

I’m getting word that the gathering of chanters was down by the old well in the south of town. Now, of course, we all know the old well. It’s that well that inexplicably appeared a few days ago. We call it the “old well” because it’s been a really long week this week, what with getting back from vacation, and returning to work, and school. Plus, it’s been super hot here this August. We’re all just kind of…over it. So, like, two or three days feels like ages! That well’s been there basically forever!

Apparently a couple of people noticed that, after sunset, the well emanates a bright light. As they approached the well, there eyes and hair disappeared. And they began whispering, “well of night!” to passersby. They kept repeating the whisper, “well of night,” to anyone who would listen, but given that it is bad luck to acknowledge a stranger, most people hurried by without paying too close attention.

Eventually, someone pulled their car over near the well, and asked the whisperers for directions to Chipotle. The whisperers replied, “well of night.” And in a blink, the car was gone. And the driver was standing next to the two whisperers, equally eyeless. Equally hairless. All three of them shouting, “Well of life! Well of life!”

The three of them then did a series of moderate calisthenics, where they took large skipping steps, bringing their knees up to their chests, and twirling their arms as straight sticks in conflicting circles above their heads.

Or, maybe, this wasn’t calisthenics, but ritual dancing. Not sure. Both are important parts of a solid daily health regimen.

More on this as it develops, but first, a look at today’s traffic.

There’s an accident on Galloway Road, beneath the overpass of Route 800. Everyone is very sorry about what happened. They didn’t mean for it to turn out like this. They didn’t mean for anything to turn out like it did. It was totally an accident, and everyone apologizes profusely. Can you try to understand how something like this could happen to anyone? Can you try to forgive them? Can you?

Emergency crews are on hand to help clear debris and to offer hugs and empathy to all those affected directly and indirectly.

Moving on, there’s congestion in downtown right now because of construction, narrowing Somerset down to a single lane. The Sheriff’s Secret Police has sent traffic cops down there to shout, and scowl, and point. Which has helped considerably.

Oh, it’s actually made the traffic worse, but everyone in the traffic feels stronger, more emotionally prepared to deal with adversity than they were before getting in their cars.

Tunnels and bridges are completely clear this hour, as they are most hours, because they’re either totally secret or off-limits to public use. But today, they’re especially clear of even the black sedans, armored vehicles, and windowless vans that normally clog those roadways.

Listeners, the Night Vale Highway Department would like to remind you to buckle up. Then, to hunker down. Then, to forget everything. Then, to remember everything. Then, to open your eyes to what’s really going on. Don’t you see what’s really going on? The Highway Department would like to call you all sheeple.

“Sheeple,” they scowl as they roll their eyes.

This has been a public service announcement from the Night Vale Highway Department.

Here now with a message from today’s sponsor is Deb, a sentient patch of haze.

Hi, Deb!

Deb: Hi, human broadcaster! Hello, mortal listeners. It’s back-to-school time again, and the kids still need new clothes, bags, lunches, falconry gear, rappelling equipment, and other basic school supplies. So much stuff! Where will you find time to go to all of those stores?

Well, you don’t have to go to a bunch of different stores, you only need one store: Jo-Ann Fabrics.

Cecil: Cool! I thought, uh, Jo-Ann Fabrics only sold fabrics!

Deb: That’s simply untrue. Why would you even say that?

Cecil: Well, I just assumed from the name that Jo-Ann Fabrics would…

Deb: Stop talking!

Jo-Ann Fabrics welcomes any parent too overwhelmed by school, or a life, or parenthood, or whatever. Anything. Maybe you’re afraid of flying, and you have to get on a plane soon. The threat is real, you know.

Cecil: I think planes are actually much safer than they used to…

Deb: Oh my God, Cecil! Can we have a conversation for once?

Cecil: You– You– You're– You’re right. You’re right. I’m sorry, Deb. Uh, I mean, the thing is, Jo-Ann Fabrics does fabrics better than anyone, so…a creative person could make clothes, and bags, and all kinds of stuff for their…kids?

Deb: You’re obsessed with fabrics!

Cecil: Well…

Deb: Fine. Go on about your fabrics. What do I care about your petty human concerns?

Cecil: Ooh! Carlos bought a nice batik at Jo-Ann’s recently. It’s got, umm…

Deb: You don’t know what batik is.

Cecil: I don’t.

Unknown deep voice: Jo-Ann Fabrics.

Deb: Aah! What the heck is that?

Cecil: I– I– don’t know! I– I– I’ve never heard that voice before!

Unknown deep voice: For all you back-to-school needs.

Deb: Oh my God! That’s really weird.

Cecil: Yeah, it is!

Unknown deep voice: Joooooooooooo-Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnn’s….

Deb: I’m outta here!

Unknown deep voice: Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa…

Cecil: O– OK, uh, bye, Deb.

Unknown deep voice: …aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaabrrrrics.

Cecil: Listeners, I’m just getting word that, right this moment, the old well has begun to cast a ray of darkness upward.

As the sun reached its apex, darkness cut across the bright day in a thin, long V. The chanters, whose numbers have apparently grown into the high hundreds, are doing their strange dance, or exercise, around the well, and chanting.

More and more are joining this throng. I’m being told that all of their eyes are completely overgrown with skin, and that their hair doesn’t actually fall out. Apparently each hair retreats rapidly back into their heads like a scared worm.

Uh, I can see from my studio that tall funnel of black against the blue sky, and…and I can faintly hear the chanting.

There it is.

“Bah-bah-bah! Bah-wah-wah!”

That’s it! That is the chanting I heard last night.

“Well of night! Well of life! Well of night! Well of life!”

Uh, listeners, I can feel…the power of the chant. I– I– I– I can feel my hair shortening, and– and re-entering my scalp. Oh, that feels so…uh, so…rewarding!

Well of night! Well of life!

My– my eyes are being covered in skin, but suddenly, I can see so much! More than I ever thought possible! I must go to this well! With the well, I will see everything!

Well of night! Well of life! Well of night! Well of life! Well of night!

[Cecil’s voice fades, and a door closes, then reopens several seconds later as Cecil returns]

I almost forgot. Here’s today’s weather.

Well of night! Well of life! Well of night!

[Door closes again]

[“Children of God” by Andrew Jackson Jihad]

Whoo! Oh, wow! What fun that was, Night Vale! Oh, those “well of life” people are wild, but so sweet!

I was a bit nervous at first, because it’s been years since I’ve been unwillingly inducted into a cult or a chanting circle. I kind of thought I’d get there, and everyone would see how out of practice I was, and boy…if you saw my kick steps, you’d know I hadn’t done a jumping jack or prayer dance in forever.

But, here comes old Cecil, with his hair withdrawn and his eyes covered in flesh, ripe for the teasing, and they welcomed me without judgment or hesitations. I wasn’t two steps into their circle before someone drew blood from my neck, and everyone cheered…ah! What fun!

Hmm.

Then someone else turned into a bird-like animal, a little furrier than a normal bird, and we all followed it into the well. And down in that well we all chanted until the bird person touched each of our foreheads with its…bird-hoof? Or whatever birds call their feet?

And some of us joined hands, and droned for a little bit. A few others were watching baseball highlights, and a few more were enjoying the hummus that someone had made.

Then, I was back here – skin covering gone from my eyes, hair returned to my scalp. The only thing different is that now I’m wearing a black plastic poncho, cat ears, and yellow galoshes. This was definitely not what I wore to work, as I do not own yellow galoshes. They’re orange.

Oh, I don’t know. These are kind of orange-ish. The lighting in my studio’s weird. Maybe these boots are mine.

Yeah. I’m wearing exactly what I was wearing before, I think.

Anyway, I met some amazing people today, people I don’t remember anything about except the feeling of love and acceptance I felt when I was with them. The– their faces and bodies are blurs. But, for a short time, we all chanted and did aerobics as one. We all mattered to each other, even though we knew we didn’t matter at all. That seems wrong, I know, but two conflicting things can exist simultaneously. And they did! And it was a great moment. One I will cherish. And, one I hope to never have a gain, because it would be ruined by the unattainable perfection of nostalgia.

Ahh, the old well is gone now. In its place, a barely-noticeable bulge in the earth, slightly pink, and soft to the touch. The Parks Department has already erected a historic plaque to commemorate the well. The plaque reads, “NOTHING UNUSUAL HAPPENED HERE OR WILL HAPPEN HERE. YOU HAVE BEEN PHOTOGRAPHED READING THIS PLAQUE. WHAT WERE YOU HOPING TO LEARN?”

Stay tuned next for less of what you once were but more of what you think you are.

Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.

Today’s proverb: When someone says “I’m a dog person,” I always reply, “Yeah? Well, I’m a lizard person.” And then I peel off my face.