When you least expect it, after the countdown has painstakingly prepared you for the penultimate event, it springs forth unexpected.
Each dendrite shivers, carrying anxiety to all of your extremities like a barrage of inimical Gary Buseys.
That eerie feeling creeping down your neck is either the knowledge of what’s to come or a legitimate problem that needs immediate attention… From a priest.
Even clowns, who are never ever the least bit disturbing, become invested with the seasons sinister sentiment.
All so that we, the huddled masses enshrouded in a web of comfortable denial, can face our fears of mortality.
In a scant eleven days we shall know what it is to be alive when the dead and tastelessly dressed retake the streets for one Hallowed Eve.