She was blathering on with worry on her tongue, dripping like icicles do in mid autumn. The kind in Colorado, with rocky mountains and arid, hard to breathe air. But it isn’t always like this, though I’m not sure her tongue ever rests in the fields of peace. I was hoping to use my porch without the interruption of well to do acquaintances, but this seems a lofty goal. She stands here as I type, full of the thick moss on her mouth, the dog wanting a real walk, as she holds her companion hostage. The topic tonight, as autumn swiftly approaches, is her disdain for the apartment company’s frequent cubicle invasions. We come in peace to check your filters, your drips, your fire sprinklers, your level of cleanliness, the hidden agenda blooming slow as orchids. As I say this, I am fully aware that privacy is wrongfully interrupted in attempts to catch the plebeian in the act of crime. The air demands silence. The breeze carries the sounds of the highway onto my spider porch. The buggers skittering around with no regard to us colossal structures. Can they hear us? I imagine my voice sounding like whale songs to the small hearing holes on the even smaller creatures. We are city pyramids to these fuckers, so convinced we are buildings of soft rubber with banks of blood, that they exercise a blind bravery against our flesh, and approach pony tailed girls who screech with a mixture of delight over their quaintness and fear of being pricked by these dastardly creatures. Ho! The pace of the conversation has changed! She now goes on about video games, modern and vintage alike. And this has somehow moved her countenance to a cascade of pride and joy, more insync to the weather than her conversational introduction. She’s got this limp, like I do. I get the bitterness. Revel in the moments of the puckered up lime suckle, but o my can bitterness envelope. Let’s take a breathing break. Darling, you’re stronger than this. And I will never look down upon weakness, for humility is often confused by it, but they are not the same. Although the line can become muddled, and the cloud become bigger, and the syntax! How I wish i could be rid off punctuation. Like maybe the best love to read is written like a dream. Or like neurosis. If that’s what professionals choose it to be called. Adam named all the animals of the wild, perhaps doctors do the same. But if condemnation is in a name, I tell ya you’ve got this all wrong. What’s in a name? Is that a serious question? EVERYTHING! Absolutely all rests in the auditory vibrations of that which you respond to. Why would God change his beloveds’ names? To help them fulfill a new vibration. I suspect, you intrepid wordsmith, knew this. And that is why you killed them off.