Start again. He texted me. Out of the blue, like a blue screen suddenly fixed, like sadness pierced with peace, happy like Ulysses, I make my cautious approach. What has changed? Has it grown? Has it betrayed? What trees were felled, poisoned or broken by force, whether of nature or men? What bags beneath her eyes? Her? Is it she now? And he? Both. Oh, both....
Freakshow editor, permit this miserable contributor some space, once more, to sort through his confusion before he is transfixed by your stern rule, once more. The words, so seemingly uncouth and impolite, and hateful and angry (let those accusations fly, while I am swift and nimble), reveal my thoughts and sentiments, right or wrong and sometimes contradictory. Let logicians grapple with patterns and mazes, while lovers run like squirrels throughout -- branch to branch and tree to tree, traceless pilgrims in the wilderness.
How many wishes come true? Have any been granted? I thought to make another request -- not to exasperate your patience, and that, if that, long before causing offense. As with his words, a beggar makes his condition worse and his abject state commands the pity of more fortunate persons, so would I trust to ask of you a simple and a strict accounting. Within so small a space, being granted absolute control: to till, plant, weed, prune and pick, to let some animals in and to chase and keep others out, to trap and kill: let me cultivate this garden.
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