The matchmaker man left milk instead of bread again and I fear his mission ending on my porch suggested remorse for his debt, and his fear deep down of what's in my head. Taking the milk jars inside, no bread or way to light my fires, of course, a short brittle reprise from what i see is no surprise the fire has been dead for me so long now the matchboy has grown and possibly forgotten his tired losses and ill-gotten gains at my expense and detriment, yet I have little sentiment and even less design on his bread and matches for naught of nightly cries and warehouse thoughts in my rolling brain waves of reclusive nut grains just bits of food to feed this lanky frame is not enough for me or eternal enough for us his hunger impaling me, my whole, a game? I consider it with a glass of milk for my kitty, a ******* reminder of the world outside me, a challenge to out-decide a riddle or maybe a small coincidence in a series of incidents cascading in an order of shorter and shorter endurance and more disorder, first in betrayal and ending in a chaotic hailstorm of fear, dread, remorse and debt ... I am saying that I am no matter what begets at my front door, regret,,,,,? Another telegram from a war torn hell? and it might as well come to me in that way because the things my brain conjures on silent Mondays, or will it be sympatico that knocks on my door like a redheaded woodpecker bangs?