Tuesday, August 30, 2005

A hard lesson

The stubborn donkey wouldn’t budge despite Juan’s lulls and bribes. It was a hot day. The sun angrily beat down on the comedic duo: one anxiously glancing forward toward the eerily empty road ahead, pressing onward, and the other dumbly looking back, committed to those roads already traveled – those paths already deemed safe. Juan could feel his impatience slowly turning into rage. Despite his beckoning, pleading, and assertive commanding, the burro remained rooted in the caked earth, his passionless black eyes coldly revealing nothing. Juan turned and walked toward the back of the ramshackle cart. With a huff he unsnapped the whip from it’s home below the box where he stored his tools. He walked back around behind the cart with a deadly gleam in his eye fully prepared to vent a lifetime of frustrations on the poor beast.

“All right you have a choice. You can pull the cart and we will proceed to San Luis or you can continue to dumbly sit and be punished for your defiance.”

The donkey casually looked back, his tail swatting at a pesky horsefly.


Committed to his decision Juan reached back and with all of his strength lashed the donkey’s back. The donkey stiffened for but a second, his emaciated body attempting to lessen the cruel sting of the whip. A bloody, raw line remained in the donkey’s soft brown fur along the length of his bony spine. Despite the throbbing pain the donkey was resolute. His black eyes gazing forward, revealing nothing. This steadfastness… this "defiance"…. only fueled the fire that had begun raging inside Juan’s soul.

He lashed the donkey again. And again he was met with stoic silence and unwavering stillness.

Juan became angrier, driven down the dangerous path of unthinking blind rage he continued to whip the donkey. Blow after devastating blow was rained upon the poor beast’s back, sides, and rear. Where once the donkey’s coat was a perfect, velvety brown, it was now a marred landscape of gory skin and a sickeningly thick layer of sticky, matted blood. The donkey’s knees buckled. The rickety cart tipped over and the contents spilled. The combination of the heat, the pain of the numerous wounds, and the stinging bites of a thousand horseflies that now covered his broken skin, drawn by the scent of blood, was too much to bear.

Exhausted and out of breath, Juan leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees. He wiped his mouth and angrily spit a thick clump of bile and saliva onto the cracked dirt. He blankly stared at the pitiful donkey that now lay on the ground wheezing in pain, disoriented and scared. As the adrenaline ran its course in his bloodstream, reality began to set in. “What have I done?” He thought to himself. His pensiveness was interrupted by a voice behind him.

“ Where are you headed on this hot day?”

Juan turned to see a man, finely dressed in black slacks and a crisp white shirt. He was clean shaven, his hair carefully combed. The man had handsome features and wisdom in his eyes.

“ Oh, I didn’t see you there. We travel to San Luis. I have work waiting for me.”

The mysterious man’s eyes flitted from the cart, to the bleeding donkey, back to Juan. “ You’ll be there in no time at this rate.”

“ If you’d like to help you may, otherwise proceed on, your sarcasm does not humor me.”

“ I won’t help you but I offer you this advice. San Luis is closed to outsiders. The town has been struck with the plague. All of its inhabitants are dead or dying, including the rats. Only the cockroaches remain. You may continue on if you’d like, although I assure you, the consequences will be dire.”

Juan paused. A bead of sweat slowly ran down the length of his face, beaded on his chin, and then, as if in slow motion, fell to the earth.

The stranger continued. “Perhaps in the future you should stop and listen. Be mindful of your anger and observe the wisdom you’ll invariably find all around you. Now you are left with nothing except a long walk home, wherever that may be.” As he said this he nudged toward where the donkey lay. Juan followed the man’s gaze. The poor animal was no longer breathing. His service to Juan forever ended. Once proud and faithful, now merely a meal for the flies and vultures.

Juan turned back to address the man only to find he had vanished.

Juan was left standing in the hot sun, his upturned cart, spilled wares, and a dead donkey his only company.

Sunday, August 28, 2005


Ah, very good... up five points. Your value is rising.

You're on the 'up and up' ready to claim your prize that lies in the bottom of a Crackerjack box, your piece of the pie. Counting your praises, like pennies, hunched over a solitary candle, you sit alone by your laptop sifting through dusty volumes full of dusty ideas desperate to arrive at the next great original thought. A formulaic exercise in thievery, regurgitation, and repackaging. This blog, this so-called experiment, houses the concepts and theories you supposedly cast-off. A digital island of misfit toys, misshapen freaks, and there you sit surveying it all. Dr. Moreau himself. Creator, destroyer, fabricator of hypocrisy, lover of links... fat and bloated beyond reason: so full of reeking, fetid bullshit. This home grown concoction you ladle from a gigantic black cauldron kept in some seedy, secret back room where you cook up this disgusting stew. A little Wilde, a dash of Greene, a pinch of Ginsburg, a tablespoon of Palahniuk, and the list goes on. Varying degrees of theft.

But wait, isn't all art theft?

I hear a distant, rhythmic slapping sound, the sloppy sound of fucking, or maybe it's merely you, reading your own work which you humbly claim is unfinished and unpolished, tugging on your tiny pecker, your other hand, caught up in the moment, crinkling a copy of Neruda. Meathead assholes drive big trucks because they have small cocks. In the circles we run in, men who use garrulous, pedantic words also have small.... ideas? They have small... imaginations? Nah. I'm inclined to think they also have small, underused peckers. I'm inclined to think YOU haven't been laid in a year and a half. I'm inclined to think you want to bang some bright eyed, nubile lit student, perhaps woo her with your in-depth knowledge of Joyce, Dostoevsky, and Beckett, and failing even in this endeavor utterly. I imagine you sitting there on your throne, your Dickies around your ankles, wallet chain dangling, squeezing out your next turd, polished and gleaming - a scalding observational piece criticizing someone you've never actually met but think you know based off a select number of words or images this other person has carefully chosen to provide you. Someone you think you know because you will invariably compare this person to someone you knew once, or perhaps in your egocentricity, to yourself once upon a time. Someone you know because you read some books and compare this person to one of the many fictional, fossilized characters you surround yourself with. How pathetic.

A dinosaur on the verge of extinction attempting to examine and decipher the bones of Homo Sapien.

I can imagine a person like that. Despite whatever airs of sophistication they may try to hoodwink or bamboozle the rest of us with. Despite whatever masks they may choose to don. Despite their efforts to mingle with the common folk sipping Guiness discussing the latest indie bands, dressed in denim, Diesel, and black and white Chuck Taylor's complete with a small tattoo on their arm which thus screams their rebelliousness and surety. Yes, I can imagine a person like that and no, that person does not stare at me every night when I brush my teeth. I'm not talking about me, I'm talking about you and you know I'm talking about you.

Even if I wasn't, in your hubris and pretension, you'd still probably know I was.

Saturday, August 27, 2005

a trip abroad

Blond hair, blue eyes, and tan skin looks so seductive under the black lights and bathed in the cool, ghostly glow of the sticks. Her smile gleams with radioactive whiteness. Her tits are immaculate. A perfect fusion of nature and science. Not too big, they complement the rest of her toned, muscled body. It looks natural. Her shoulders, arms, stomach, and legs are defined. I've always loved athletic looking women. Absolutely sublime. I've dated models and the coked out thin look doesn't suit me. It never has. How odd when I was younger I'd more likely be caught jerking off to “Fitness for Her” or the latest issue of “Shape” than “Victoria's Secret.” J___ embodies everything I've ever desired in this respect. She's petite, around 5' 6”, but when she wears those trashy, clear stiletto's, I call them “stripper shoes,” she's easily 5'9”. In addition, those wonderful shoes bring out the shape of her calves and thighs... oh and her ass. I could write sonnets about her perfect bubble butt. Like a violin virtuoso picking up a stradivarius, those shoes play J____'s body, bringing out the most beautiful elements. They accentuate the good and disguise any flaws.

Wait, she doesn't have any flaws.

I arch my back raising my cock as she runs her tongue up the shaft starting at my balls up to the tip. A small droplet of pre-cum has beaded on the end like a pearl. She squeezes my cock and we both watch the pearl double in size. She then playfully flicks her tongue over the end and the precious gem disappears somewhere inside her mouth. In one motion she swallows my sword as her hands run up my stomach to my chest. She starts to rub my nipples with her thumbs as she continues to bob her head up and down on my lap. Her hair hides her sexy face but I can still see it's outline in my mind. I lean back and close my eyes, enjoying the sensation... transported to the outer edges of carnality. The trance beat defines the landscape and the tablets of E we both crushed up and snorted is our guide on this beautiful, frantic, erotic journey J___ and I are on.

We call these excursions “vacations.”

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Take me home

Eight empty shot glasses lined up on the bar in a neat, little, obsessive-compulsive row. My mouth tastes like pennies and rusted fillings. I casually pick at the complimentary wooden bowl full of stale nuts halfheartedly trying to satiate the intense hunger that stings at my aching soul. It’s Karaoke night at the dive bar. Some old man sings John Denver’s “Country Roads.” I think about the city. I miss the East Coast.

I miss the way “life used to be.”

I really should be at home in bed but then what would be the point in that? I’d rather be here: lucid, dreaming, and awake, shooting away my sorrows. Listening to the sad tales around me. Joining in the mournful chorus of wailing ghosts.

A blonde, toothless whore named “Bonnie” sits next to me vying for my attention. She’s a former heroin addict with leathery skin. She’s a flitting shadow of her former self. Once upon a time, probably back in the heavy metal 80’s, she was a very beautiful woman. Time hasn’t been kind. 15 years, one ruptured silicon implant, numerous drug and alcohol addictions, and 5 kids later: she’s tore up. How does the phrase go?

"Ridden hard and put away wet.”

She’s telling me about her ex husband. He’s a biker. In fact, he’s a lieutenant and a hired gun for the outlaw motorcycle organization “the Banditos.” Why she’s telling me I have no idea. To impress me perhaps? I listen though. As long as she keeps buying me shots of Tequila and slipping me smokes I’ll continue to listen. Isn’t that all what we search for, someone who is willing to listen? Here and there I’ll throw in a lame quip or a stupid joke in between her stories of yesteryear. Her laugh is grating… like nails on a chalkboard. It’s the wheezing, silent laugh of chain smoking, trailer park royalty. I try not to look at her row of rotted gum.

I’ll probably go home with her tonight. Somehow I’m always able to find the beauty in any woman I meet. especially after 8 shots of Tequila and 4 beers. Her body isn’t too bad. I’ll satisfy her fantasy tonight. I’ll give her some company and pleasure. In return, she’ll provide me a fleeting, temporary escape quickly followed by shuddering, convulsive feelings of disgust and panic and then calm… as I pass out in her bed with my cock still buried deep inside her as we lay among a million stuffed animals alone in her double-wide.

I’ll be sure not to kiss her on the mouth.

Friday, August 19, 2005

The Beat

You might lose everything in this life.

You might find yourself homeless crashing on your buddies couch while all of your shit, all of your worldly belongings, are locked away in a 20 dollar-a-month, climate controlled storage unit. You may find yourself wearing the same clothes you found yourself wearing the previous week when you realized you were wearing the same clothes you wore the previous week. You may find yourself at the local 7-eleven sealed in a bathroom washing your knickers in the sink, a trusty bottle of Palmolive by your side, with your dick hanging out. You may find yourself stealing money out of your dying grandmother's purse. You may find yourself donating plasma, blood, sperm, or whatever other bodily fluids so you may later buy your fake-ass friends a round of shots at the bar and look like a big shot. You may find yourself looking in the mirror and not recognizing the face who stares back. You may find yourself turning tricks, sucking off a 50 year old investment banker who looks like Richard Gere in a dingy back room at a crappy, fag techno club hoping... no, praying... someone you know doesn't spot you. You may find yourself shooting heroin between your fingers and toes so you may hide unsightly track marks from colleagues, friends, family, and yourself. You may find yourself sitting in the back of a limo sipping champagne and snorting lines of coke with complete fucking strangers, middle aged swingers, who's only intent is to fuck your girlfriend. You may find yourself sitting in front of your laptop at 3:45 in the morning with your head swiming in coffee and mephamphetamine, grasping at ideas, desperate to arrive at something profound and beautiful... and utterly failing. You may find you've lost the touch, the idea machine has shut down due to irreparable damage. You may find yourself walking just a little slower across that bridge. You may find yourself shivering on a park bench staring at a photograph of your little boy, focusing on his happy smile and starry, optimistic eyes. However, no matter how hard life decides to shit on you. No matter how many punches to the face and kicks to the balls you take. No matter how much dirt and dog shit you're forced to pick up with your face. No matter how hard you hit the bottle, the floor, or the bottom, wherever that may be; wherever your personal version of dizzying hell might lead you ... there is always the music.

There is always the beat.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005


The stale stench of sweat, shit, and cum lingers heavily in the cramped room. All three of us lie naked on the filthy mattress that lies on the filthy carpet nestled amidst piles of filthy clothes, rat turds, empty cans of Bud light, and dripping condoms. The room is dark. Shadows from the outside playfully dance on the adjacent wall. These shadow-puppets are hypnotic, and too far and few between. There aren’t many cars out at 3:45 am. The world is sleeping; including Angel and this disgusting whore we brought home who is lying between us.

I can’t sleep.

We both took turns fucking her in every possible hole. Male bonding. Angel says we are now “Carnales.” In Spanish “carnal” means “blood.” My cousin and I are now blood brothers. We’ve discussed it often: how hot it would be to tag team a bitch. Hours earlier, at the club, Angel talked me into bringing home M___, a girl I fucked. I asked him why. His response was immediate and predictable, “for a laugh of course.” This also happens to be our personal motto. I agreed and with a wry smile I invited M___ to come back to our place for “some drinks and some fun.” She agreed. Everyone wants to be loved you know.

Everyone is searching for a purpose.

“ Hey M____, you want to play a game”

“ It depends, what’s the game?”

“ You put on this blindfold and then you try to guess which one of us kissing you. If you guess wrong, you take another drink of beer. If you guess right, we drink.”

“ O.K, sounds fun.”

We fucked her. Hard. We wanted to hurt her. We wanted to make this moment an unforgettable one. She hungrily sucked our cocks and salty balls. We spit in her face. We double-penetrated her. We were caught in it, the delicious rage, so wonderful and intense and urgent. A torrid snapshot frozen in time. For the briefest moment I didn’t think about my life, my shitty job, my bills, my next fix, nothing, only the sensation; only M___’s pitiful, guttural sobs or the incessant, rhythmic slapping of our balls against her ass and chin. We focused on getting off again and again and again. The filthy bitch was a mere toy, a cum receptacle… nothing more, nothing less.

I pull my dick out of her ass, tear the condom off, grab M___ by her bottle-bleached blonde hair, and shove my cock in her mouth. I fuck her face as I shoot my hot spunk down her throat; my ass clenching and unclenching. She gags and chokes on what seems to be a gallon of hot, white shit. My cousin looks at me and giggles. I can’t help but laugh. I laugh at how fucked up the situation is. I laugh at the intense level of mordant disgust I feel. I laugh at how proud my parents must be of me, wherever the fuck they are.

We accomplished our goal though. Carnales to the end.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

The Last

He was a child, no younger than eight. Born into poverty, the son of a carter, he knew hardship at an early age. He was well versed in the hard lessons of life. Every crust of bread or strip of meat had to be earned. He would often help tend the stubborn old ox as they walked for miles and miles along the rickety roads from one province to the next under the hot sun. As he silently trudged alongside his somber father, he’d steal glances into the dark forest, among the darting shadows. Wishing he’d be the first among his friends to see her. He felt no fear or hesitation.

When all seems hopeless and feelings of desolation eat away at your soul, I will be there. Through hazy eyes, across the steaming mists of the eternal forest, so lush and green, that will always exist in the farthest recesses of your mind. I will be there. Across the dry, swirling sands of the empty desert that stretch on endlessly in your cavernous heart. I will be there.

He was a young man, no older than twenty, so strong and quick. He assumed an apprenticeship as a carpenter and wiled away long hours into the night cutting and whittling, mending and crafting. With a sweaty brow he would often see the idle lords and ladies, dukes and duchesses, and the clumsy assortment of royal fools, who hoped to be seen, on parade in the cobbled streets. Sometimes he’d stand in the doorway, as the rain poured down, hoping to catch but a mere glimpse of her amidst the throng of dull eyes and bruised feet.

All I know, I can’t let go. Is it dark? Do we dream? Only yesterday we were endlessly trapped in a sad, sad song. You are a vision to me. A shimmering beautiful shadow I long to see when I close my eyes and search the sky, freeing my mind. There you are between the sparkling stars and the mournful moon smiling, always smiling, even when I cry.

He is an old man, fragile and broken, forsaken by family and friends, alone on his deathbed. A lifetime of toil and regret weigh heavily on his head and his heart, torn apart, seeks solace and rest. In between fluttering beats and raspy breaths, in between this plane and the next, among the flickering shadows of the nether regions where the dark seas meet, he finally catches but the briefest glimpse of black, wise eyes. A white mane and a single ancient horn, crafted of bone.

With a final passing smile and a sigh he can finally say goodbye to the fleeting, hard life he never knew.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Fade to Black

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Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Game Hunting

“ Fuck, I think I’m gonna puke!” I lean forward and gingerly rest the tips of my fingers on the red brick. I close my eyes, grit my teeth, and focus on some random thought. Using my other hand, I pinch the bridge of my nose with my thumb and index finger attempting to stave off the alcohol induced vertigo and nausea.

Of course Angel doesn’t hear me. He’s 20 feet away chatting up a group of skanks.

The club is closing. The bouncers are herding everybody out like cattle. This is the last opportunity we’re going to have to find someone to take home. Unfortunately I’ve been sidelined, and Angel’s having an off night.

“Chango, no way I’m fucking driving, take these…” Speaking to nobody in particular, I reach into my pocket and pull out my keys. I extend my arm and dangle them out in the air like a carrot for anyone to grab. Angel snatches the keys from my hand as if on cue.

“Fucking bitches, acting stuck-up as hell. I’m not going to sit there feeding their fucking egos… hey you ok?”

I carelessly sit down on the pavement next to a stack of discarded flyers. My foot kicks a half-empty Guiness bottle causing it to spin. Sticky beer splashes all over. At this point, I could care less about my black slacks or Italian shoes. “Where the fuck have you been bro?”

“What do you mean where have I been? Trying to get us LAID Cabron!”

“Any luck?”

Angel’s ignoring me.

He’s scanning the crowd with a furrowed brow, a look of intense concentration splayed across his face. Like a lion, he’s searching for the easiest prey: the sick, the weak. Angel truly doesn’t give a fuck whether he takes home a fat girl, or a funny looking girl, or an ugly bitch. It's not that he's bad looking, on the contrary, he's a very good looking guy, dark and exotic. He simply doesn't care. He’s told me on many occasions, with pride even, “a hole is a hole.” That’s where we differ. I’ve always been a trophy hunter. I have to have the best looking girl by my side or in my bed. I’ve always felt I had a reputation to uphold. If I don’t hook up with the girl with the nicest set of tits, or legs, or the prettiest face, I’d rather go home empty-handed. Of course, like any man, I have a few skeletons in my closet. I’ve banged a few nasties here or there in a drunken daze. Or if, for instance, Angel’s needed me to “distract” an over-protective friend, thereby “taking the bullet.” He’s done the same for me… countless times. I’ll rationalize MY “lowering of standards” with this simple, elegant phrase:

“I find perfection in her imperfections.”

“Hey, look at them over there.” Angel points at two girls smoking by a silver Honda. They aren’t gorgeous, nor are they ugly either. They are simply… there. Imperfectly perfect. Generic. Fuckable. Something stirs inside me… something primitive.

Or maybe it's the booze.

“O.K I’m in. Let’s do this.” I hop up and dust the seat of my pants. I suddenly have a second wind. I’m feeling “firme.”

We walk over to the two girls to make our acquaintance.

I give a genuine, friendly smile. "Hi."


“ Do you have a lig-………..”

I’m unable to finish my sentence. I double over and puke the entire contents of my stomach onto the curb right next to the street, the Civic, and the two girls... a steaming, dripping pile of half-digested sushi, Red Bull, and Vodka.

Friday, August 05, 2005

Black and White

He sits by himself in his empty, filthy apartment blankly staring at an old black and white photograph of his deceased grandfather. No emotion. Dying. Alone. Rock bottom. He wears an expressionless death mask… a mask of Noh. The windows are open and the blinds are drawn. Rain soaks his shit-brown carpet as the winds incessantly snap the ratted red curtains. The pitter-patter of the rain, the whipping of the curtains, the incessant howl of the wind outside, the faint tympani of ten-thousand cockroach feet, the dry crackling of peeling yellow paint... they're instruments in a mournful orchestra - the soundtrack to his hopeless life.

He’s too lazy to get up and close the window. Or eat. Or jerk off. In fact he’s too un-ambitious to do much of anything except chain-smoke and shoot up. Four cc’s of sweet smack flow up his arm into his heart, up through his brain, and then off to his starving, twitching muscles. The result is a calm, euphoric, relaxed state. Kind of like sitting in a hot tub while getting your dick sucked, back scratched, and feet rubbed. Not a care or a fuck in the world.

The rank stink of the dried shit camping out in his boxers doesn’t bother him much.

Through half-closed eyes he concentrates on the photograph he’s struggling to hold between his thumb and index finger. Although the paper is frayed around the edges, yellowed and brittle from time, the image is unmistakable. A handsome, young man standing before the prow of a battleship. He wears a crisp white naval uniform and an even whiter smile. It's funny, his grandfather looks exactly like he does. That is IF he shaved. Or ate more. Or slept.

The man's mind, prone to distraction, begins to wander. The 50’s… it was a better time then. We knew who the bad guys were. It was a black and white war in a self-contained black and white world. His grandfather’s eyes twinkle with pride and… anticipation? He’s ready to fight the good fight. Kill some kikes or Japs. Maybe fuck a nubile islander somewhere in the South Pacific.

Wait, did he just wink?

The disenchanted son of a bitch asleep in the torn thrift store chair gently stirs… and smiles. He wonders if the image in the photograph will suddenly break into dance or song like Fred fucking Astaire. Or not? He needs something. Answers. Meaning. History. Importance. A miracle. He grasps at shadowy memories. He asks questions. What kind of a man was his grandfather? Who was he really? When this image was captured, in the split second the shutter opened and closed with a whirring click… at the very instant his grandfather’s countenance was forever fixed onto the negative – what was he thinking?

Is there a chance he could have imagined this? For the briefest of seconds and through the foggy expanse of time, could he have seen his grandson sitting in a desolate apartment staring right back? His legacy? His immortality? His failure.

Remember when I'd come and visit you out on Long Island? You were healthy then. You'd sit in your favorite chair on the back patio reading the paper and smoking a cigar... you were always smoking a cigar. I grew to love that smell. It's always summer where we are. I'm catching fireflies and storing them in mason jars. All for you. You're my hero and I'm your little paisan.

I think the last time I cried was the day you died.

Between the rain, wind, and the snapping curtains the man in the chair hears a Pimp shouting at one of his whores out on the street three stories and a million miles below. He's threatening to "slit her belly open and piss on her guts." She begs for mercy. He notices her accent. Puerto Rican maybe?

His thoughts shift to his mother.

Monday, August 01, 2005


It was a cold, clear February day when you and I first met. Permafrost blanketed the ground and the trees quietly slept as they patiently waited and wished for Spring's life-giving warmth. Creation. Death. Rebirth. Reincarnation. A wide array of tumultuous emotions hit me the moment I first gazed into your dark, wise eyes. It was finally time, I realized, to return to the highway. Faintly I heard you calling and beckoning, begging me to come back with your first agonizing, raspy cry. The road less traveled had indeed born fruit. I did not walk away empty handed as I thought I always would. No, instead I found you... my destiny... my legacy... my immortality. That cold February day I knew it was time to seal everything up in a box labeled “yesterday” and finally move the fuck on. I had to grow up. Like a snake shedding its skin: a faded, dry, stinking husk… to reveal the beautiful array of striking resplendent color underneath. Hypnotic patterns that remained so well hidden these many, many years as I slept. The epiphanous instant I heard your first mournful wail I suddenly knew I was indeed capable of love, for I loved you beyond reason or words or conditions.

Alone in the nursery you and I had our first conversation that cold night back in February. I sat by your bedside and watched you sleep, snugly wrapped in your blankets and hastily jacked in to a wide array of instruments and machines; the only sound was the steady beep of your tiny heartbeat. Your heart that pumped OUR blood: yours, mine, and your mothers. I distinctly recall thinking to myself how unbelievably perfect you were. Your gray eyes were so sharp and wise. I knew they were eyes that had just, a short time prior, beheld God. Your olive skin was like mine but unblemished and void of the cruel, unrelenting lashes administered by time. Finally, I remember how you'd smile when you slept. Who were you talking to? Perhaps one day you'll tell me. That night we sat and discoursed, you and I. I told you about your mother, your aunt, my dreams, our future. I'd bring up stupid, silly things; inane facts. For instance, did you know that a redwood, a lion, and a whale all begin the same size, as a single cell? I somehow knew, and still know, YOU will grow into something wonderful. One day you will be great. I can feel this with every fiber of my being. It is a glow that surrounds your tiny body and... it’s unmistakable.

However, if you follow the same shadowy path I did, I will continue to love you… forever, without reason, words, or conditions.