So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
--F. Scott Fitzgerald
I have a hard time letting go of the past, especially the last decade, which is why the San Antonio versus Dallas series moves me to slouch into bed after midnight and crawl into school the next morning pushed forward by Yeats' gyres and, at most, five hours of sleep. Relegated to the first round, for the second year in a row, this series is less than it once was, yet it feels more like the Playoffs than any other series being played this postseason, at least for someone who still refuses to fully embrace a new age of basketball with all of its new laws and forces, which just like the old laws and forces, leave a fan ignorant to do anything but applaud through the night and yawn through the day. I'm tired. I'm refreshed. My existence is a tightrope through the tides of TNT.
I have a hard time letting go of the past, especially the last decade, which is why the San Antonio versus Dallas series moves me to slouch into bed after midnight and crawl into school the next morning pushed forward by Yeats' gyres and, at most, five hours of sleep. Relegated to the first round, for the second year in a row, this series is less than it once was, yet it feels more like the Playoffs than any other series being played this postseason, at least for someone who still refuses to fully embrace a new age of basketball with all of its new laws and forces, which just like the old laws and forces, leave a fan ignorant to do anything but applaud through the night and yawn through the day. I'm tired. I'm refreshed. My existence is a tightrope through the tides of TNT.
