Sea so dark, O harvester, is it possible they could have brought you and me together after so long, only to be separated in an instant? There must have been some purpose to this, some idea hiding in the vacuity, the regular oblongs that comprise your adverse assessment of my capabilities, like building blocks? But no, it says, please sit down, you’re upsetting the others. With my cant, my stammer, I suppose? Oh all right, I’ll go peaceably, but when you next see me, rigged out in nickel armor to do battle with the henchpersons—it doesn’t matter whose—you’ll descry in me a note of alarming mildness that I was saving for just such an occasion. After all, I can go on living here, and I don’t mind emptiness, but you must fill your days with satisfying chatter. Then, just as the moon’s cloak grazes the tits of some remote foothills, we’ll engage each other constructively, your energy will flow into me and vice versa, and behold, all will have been in vain, the warring, the contusions, the peacemongering: we’ll have only ourselves, and only ourselves to blame.
