THAT RESTORED MY DIABOLICAL CHEER, all right. Polished
the sheen on the surface of my spleen. I thought I could even take a
dip in a gravydish hip. Where did I leave my little Ikette?
Now
Keith is a mirror to my own grief, a
little of myself, silent and complacent in the face of a monumental
indifference like a yawning chasm, but still beyond the call of what can
be whispered, released, held close to one's neck. Cowl held close to my
neck for warmth and there's no fear of vulnerability or harm because
it's near to being my own.