I pushed further along into the night life of the Volga lands through late June, A.D. 2017. I felt the touch of your ankle directing a jungle-rotted foot toward my grandmother's gall stones that she kept in a jar after they were strained of pus. I know it's your birthday (or the anniversary of your delivered emergence from brine to carbon) and I have big plans that preclude you which means that it's cheaper to bury you when everybody's paying heed (attn.) to something other than my steady grip on a shovel.