Fail. Fail better. Failsafe. Forebear.

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So much depends on the hard heart’s easy pliable wrath, to a point where the child could not tell whether the night would yield wild yelling and breaking of heirlooms or mild didactic directives about how Seneca would handle a situation. Feelings are not facts, but violence lingers far longer than when its visit ends.

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Arrow taken from quiver and notched and coiled, behind clear-eyed conviction taking dead aim, but it could find no release and so could not make a meal of this fleeing opportunity - stag at the brook, urgently drinking.

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This blank anachronistic fiction called existence is to be trifled with, bandied about, won over, ruminated on, succumbed to, rendered from, pitied, slandered, and loved with unabashed necessity. Laugh while you can, you’ll be dead a long time.