Cry me a river. Douse me in the irony of conflict. I'm just a rock on the edge of it, sitting patiently for your sigh. We both sit idly by, tensed for the precious birth of words in silence. Trust the ever-living body of guilt that is boiling over the edges of my self-concept. Don't speak to me as if I'm some dignitary for justice, but simply as if I might irk out some monochrome of truth whilst I sip my coffee in exasperation. Irritation is also intoxication might I remind, so I'm fumbling and tripping over my own flawed reasoning. I got to this point somehow, so let us examine it rationally and see why I drowned in the liquor of my own rhetoric. Or, we can sit tentatively vacant waiting for some resolution to spring from the ether that is the growing chasm between us.