Lately, I've woken up to find a shovel in my hands. The revolution continues, to find what I have once again lost (although in my head that sentenced is finished: "to take back the child that you have stolen!")
I hope somebody gets that.
This is no time for kindness; or rather no time to be gentle. The true kindness is in the brutality of the answers, and why would I spare myself that? We're going to tell the truth here.
The truth is that this morning didn't so much break as it spilt, breaching the weakness in the Cascades and filling up the lowlands. The Sound itself is cold and wise, and lies waiting between his country and mine. Too soon to breach it, so I let the morning soak into the space between my fingers.
Time to go.