" target="_blank">Polish trees? Newt Gingrich? Mystical million-year-old cave paintings by the lost tribes of French-Indian Trepanning Podiatrists? Obvs.
But I also adore the lesser-known and the seemingly meaningless mysteries, the countless smallish, transitory tales of OMG WTF scattered about the human psychodrama that seem to point to something larger and weirder, something more deeply tattooed into the collective subconscious, but which we're simply unable to understand at this glitchy phase of human evolution. That sort of stuff makes my eyelashes curl. In a good way.
One of these items flitted over the newswires recently, a story about a mysterious phenomenon plaguing a small town somewhere you've never traveled, gladly beyond any experience. It's a tiny English village called Woodland, in Durham County, where not 300 English humblefolk live, many of them reporting the same issue, the same confounding woe, and nearly each and every one going just a little bit insane because of it.
The townspeople are complaining about headaches, fatigue, lack of sleep. They are reporting unhappy pets, unsettled dreams, a slight but palpable freaking of the hell out. (More than a few are also immensely annoyed by all the media attention aimed their humble way right now, but never mind that now). ...
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