Their souls had spoken. Rushed off into adventure fueled by mania without first breaking the ice. These talks were between new friends. Altogether anchored by deathless subjects, they deliberated naively over a shared *** of bone apple tea. The glass was broken, but this was no emergency - just heavy words minced by chattering teeth.

Hesitating only slightly, they took a death pledge. “I’m bad and it’s not worth it,” she said. “You’ll be disappointed by me too, and I’ll bet my life on it,” he returned. They chuckled sheepishly. “You’re going to miss this too”, sang the younger sibling.

Of course, their conversation was purely conjecture, subject matter the victor of a game of happenstance, mutilated in transcription, like notes copied over the shoulder from someone else’s lecture.

Still, he hoped it didn’t matter, and without hope, it didn’t matter. Perhaps this was merely thinkful wishing. “I was a single digit, a gorilla in a concrete jungle,” his words seemed to suggest. “A flightless bird makes good food for thought. Fight or flight, fight the good fight. Always choose your battles wisely, and never speak in absolutes.” she recommended.

“It’s got to be somewhere; everything’s somewhere, but, everywhere else is not here.” he wondered. She could read between the lines; and left to write. “Stop being ungrateful and just close your eyes.” She closed the door, and he opened a window. Then, like some thinly sliced avocado that didn’t quite make the cut, he fell asleep.