Originally taken aback, in the meadow, under hot circumstances. A goal in mind: to reach for the same meaning. Of trying to patch up a sincerity that never existed in the first place. It is non-existent.

What does that mean to you? And, if it means anything, give a detailed explanation why. When do you reach across to touch someone? When you feel they want it, or when you feel like it�s �right�? I�m certain there are memories that require you to turn a little while sitting. Or that require you to sit.

I�m afraid there is nothing we can do for your exposure. It�s a missed call. There, you can see it on your telephone. I�m way too late. Is there anything I can get for you while I�m out still? Could you remind me of what I was supposed to get in the first place? An array of things, no doubt, to clean your house with. A mixture of effervescence and beeswax. So light-hearted are your ways of cleaning.

They are there, dead, on the porch. All the materials you asked for. And your meaning is manifesting itself as we speak. I can tell by the way you are walking. One foot tilted, a bit of a limp, I�d go so far as to say. Your walk is an explanation. I�m forgetting it already. Because you are standing here, on the telephone, talking to me. I�m right here, in front of you. Is there anything you wanted to say, to remind me of? Because I must go, I�m terribly on time, if that makes any sense. I�ve dropped these things off for you.

It�s clear that you have to clean up now and I must go. I�m far too weary. Too fatigued.

Even sickened at the response I get from you, even still. Coming home is a nightmare.

I�ve turned to you before, it�s a weak spot�it�s damaged there. Unclean, but not dirty. Soulfully yours, belonging to you and you alone. Dying there, on the porch, with your cleaning materials. Mouth wide open from too much support. I�ve been here before, haven�t I? Is there a way out?

I know the cat wasn�t fed, I can tell by the memories I�m having. Looking at you. And the way the swing is swinging. Too much talk on a hot summer day. An afternoon, built around responses, little responses and quiet melodrama.

A surplus of gills on a fish. She�s crying out to you now. The strange thing is, that you never hear her. She only gets a puzzled look from you. But you are the one who is puzzling; after all you�re the one with the shirt on backwards.

Telling lies to all your friends, and the truth to your enemies. A witness.

I�m bearing it all on my chest, you can tell by the rise and the fall. Coming up out of the closet I have seen you, wandering around aimlessly�.

Not a rock in sight. Loving this, I smiled. Hating it, I left.