Their are boxes
and boxes,
and it's all
piling up
over time, over lots of time.
There's a lot of it.
It's all useless,
and I don't care about it.
And it sits there
in my stomach,
and it mumbles things.
I don't think that it's in a
particularly
good mood.
Maybe because I don't care about it.
It sags,
and every time I walk by it
I think of
her.
And it's taking up space.
        
        "What the ****,
are you still doing here?"
                yelling, I'm yelling now.
        "You are useless, and I wish
that you would go away."

But she doesn't go away.

When she's gone,
it's like not having
a heart.
And everything
you care about
suddenly seems
completely
stupid.
It's like your brain
stood up
in a fury,
punched the wall,
said, "**** this,"
and stomped out of the room.
And he took all your cares
and your passion
with him.

Knuckles crack
and matches are struck.
He lights his pipe,
and exhales a graceful,
billowing
cloud of smoke.
She watches, with
curious, young
eyes,
that peek through
the crack between
two massive
oak slabs of doors.
Brass handles, and
intricate, complicated designs
that this man who
sits in his study
with lost thoughts in his head,
thinks are beautiful. But
his daughter watches him,
he's hunched over
in his chair,
as if his thoughts
weigh his head down.
She wishes
she knew her father,
and in years to come,
she'll regret letting him
sulk in his study.
Because when the
cancer
came,
she had
nothing to say to him
while he was on his
death bed.

Sometimes, instead of yelling
she would carve.
She had had a book on whittling since she was eleven,
but it never came off the shelf.
So one day,
in a fury,
she picked it up
randomly
and hurled it across the room
in anger.
After looking at it
laying against the wall
looking pathetic,
she picked it back up.

That's how she dealt with all
her feelings;
she carved them in wood.
But not in stone
because feelings
change.

That dog
sat outside that house
for two and a half years.
It sat through snow and rain.
One year there was a tornado, and it was only half a mile away.
And it sat through that.
Houses suggest the idea there's a family inside them,
and this one suggested a very loving one.
That dog believed in his heart of hearts
that one day
the door would open
and these children
wonderful, laughing children
would love him and pet him
and so he sat.
and waited.
Sometimes, he would lay down,
and he slept a lot.
Sometimes, there would be days
where he really,
really thought
that those laughing children could burst out at
any
moment,
and he would pace
back and
forth
on those days.
It was like the world was black and white,
and the music playing was low and quiet and thin.
And that dog was waiting for
that glorious moment.
When suddenly, in a crescendo of happiness,
the world would fill with color
and the music would become full and thick.
And so he waited.
There was a long period, when that dogs faith
in the laughing children, almost faded.
His belief had almost worn out,
but then he thought that maybe he
had possibly heard the faintest sound,
and maybe even a chuckle.
Even if it was just a baby's gentle gurgle.
And so he paced
and he paced.
And after a while he lay down,
and then he slept.
and that dog didn't wake up
for a long time.

That dog opened his eyes,
immediately he knew something was different.
The light was on,
the light was on in the house.
He stood up.
At the edges of his world,
color started to fill in,
and the music
started to grow.
And the door **** turned,
and it was bright gold.
Yell,
yell so they notice you.
And when the door opened, there were people.
But there were no children.
There was no laughing.
The color faded out, and the music
stopped playing
all together.
These people were far to old,
the time when they had been children was gone,
it had left long ago.
So timidly, that dog stepped inside.
And wrinkled, softly wise people
touched his head
and scratched him.
It wasn't amazing,
it wasn't laughing children,
but maybe it had been, years ago.
Either way, he knew that this was right.
And he looked at himself,
and realized how long it had been,
and realized how old he himself was.
And he stood up, and he paced,
and he lay down.
And that dog slept,
and he didn't wake up.

He's got it
and she's got it.
You've got it and
I've definitely got it.
You're mom has it, same with your dad.
My cousin has it.
My dog's got it,
and your cat has it, and so does my fish.
We've all definitely got it.
There's no doubt about it.
But I'm not sure that you understand it.
I'm not sure that anyone understands it.
We all know that it's there, and that everyone has it,
but we don't know how and we don't know when,
and we definitely,
definitely,
don't know why.

And I don't know why that is.
But I'm open to suggestions.

Classical music is great
because instant by instant,
it amazes you.
Then, in the following instances,
it continues to amaze you.

Killed off in a cascade of musical notes.
Johnothan was just the butler,
but despite his minor role
his death was quite tragic.
Unlike Katie, who played Mrs. Hader,
Johnothan was killed at the end of the opera.
The shooting of John the Butler,
would be what the people remembered when they went home.
Katie died at the very beginning,
almost without a mention,
just one line
about Katie.
John the Butler died with
a dramatic, and moving
sonata in italian
about all the things he regretted doing.
I wouldn't call it the ******
of the performance,
but it was up there.

His mouth was a rigid, stony line and his eyes flickered in red firelight. He loved a woman, and she stood ahead of him, and looked back.
“I hate you, and you could not possibly know how fiercely.” To him, her words rang out like wonderful bells on the most peaceful day. He heard her words but failed to listen, love had deafened him, and their meaning was lost on him. She jumped from the edge into endless light, he looked after, but could not follow. Like a child he was lost. He did not understand.
He wandered. For eternities he searched, confused, and drunk from love he did not know he had lost.

-

All else seems horribly meaningless, and disappears from my consciousness. Such is the power of its size, and such the size of its power. A pillar, an obelisk; tall as the highest, unseen clouds and wide as many oceans, black as the heart of the deepest hole, it does stand. He views it from afar, so as to observe its hugeness appropriately. He stands from it many years travel yet it's closeness scares him to no end, for no thing exists before it unhindered by breath-stealing, icy fear. Always, there is fear.

-

A spear will burst through a chest. Blood and passion will spill forth like many avalanches. The stench of ****** will thicken the air, and his eyes will stare at it like smoking gun barrels.
“There is love, and there is fear, still.” It will say.
“No. There is anger, and then I killed you.” He will reply, his voice a sick roar. Love will die on the ground at his feet, and blood will drip from his claws. All will be utterly clear to him, and he will be there with his back to the woman and the edge, with it's endless light; his back to the obelisk, black as the deepest hole, where always there is fear. But there is no fear here.