Out of my hands, this is hot off the press. The burning paper singes my hands I drop the news on the floor; I leave it for somebody else to find. My brain cries out, it is forever forced into corners impossible equations with unbreakable solutions. My mind asks a million questions, my heart gives a million answers, none of which I can follow, suddenly- suddenly- it’s desperate. And I see it. And I feel it, and I know. Whatever I do is wrong.