There was once a curious King that was loved by all and understood by few. After years of ruling the land, he felt as though he was missing something. After days of pacing back and forth in hopes of discovering the newly felt void, it came to him. He approached his servants with the toughest task to ever be given. He sat in front of his people and spoke, "I need something that carries the ability to make me happy when I am sad and sad when I am happy." After his task was given, a servant yelled out, "That's preposterous!" Minutes passed, no one dared to take on such a task; failure to produce success would result in expulsion from the kingdom.

Moments went by and still there were no takers, but finally his most trusted servant says, "I shall take on your task my King." The room went silent, a mere pin drop could be heard from miles award. The King smiles and says to him, "You have 30 days, I wish you luck."

The servant returned back to his bedroom and packed everything he could carry, along with every cent he had ever made. He traveled throughout the land to the richest of towns in hopes of an answer. He found himself continually asking shopkeepers, spiritual members of society, and every person he passed, "What would make you happy when you're sad and sad when you're happy?" His question was constantly met with laughter, sympathy, or was left ignored.

Ten days have passed and he has made no progress. Every night he was haunted with the King's words, "Does such a thing even exist?" His spirits began to plummet. Day after day, night after night, he faced constantly failure due to a concept he hard a time understanding.

Twenty days have passed and he began to find each night of sleep was met with tears. The mere thought of failing the King made him tremble in fear. Each night he thought, "How is it possible to find something that will make my King happy when he is sad and sad when he is happy?"

Twenty nine days have passed and his journey home was underway. He had failed his King, he has never failed him, he thought to himself, "What else do I have to offer the world?"

On his last day, he was walking through the last town before he would re-enter the kingdom. The servant walked through the town with hopes low and shoulders lower. As he was walking a shopkeeper stops him, "My son, what causes you to carry such sorrow." The servant laughs, "Oh trust me, you would not know a thing about what I am going through. You are just a mere ***** shopkeeper!" The shopkeeper responded, "My son, not giving another man a chance for success will get you no where." The servant sighs, "Fine, my King has sent me on a mission. He wishes to find something that will make him happy when he is sad and sad when he is happy." The shopkeeper pauses for several minutes and his eyes brighten, "I have just the thing, follow me inside." The servant rolls his eyes and follows. As they enter the shop, the shopkeeper opens a cabinet. Just as he is pulling a silver ring from the cabinet the servant stops him, "You expect me to give him a ring worth less then my shoes?!" The shopkeeper responds, "Breathe my son, I will solve your troubles." The shopkeeper enters the back of his shop and asks the servant to stay in front. A half hour passes and the shopkeeper returns, "This should do it, now go before the sun sets... consider us even."

The servant grabs the ring and runs back to the kingdom before his deadline surpassed. He is met with music, wine, women; however, he feels he has not succeeded. The King greets him, "Welcome back! What do you have for me?" The servant sighs and says to him, "I have traveled all throughout the land and all I have to offer is this ring." The servant looks down to his feet and hands the King the ring that was wrapped in linen.

Just as he is about to tell the King he will return to his bedroom and collect his belongings, the King begins to sob. The music comes to a holt, the women stare, and every eye lays upon the King. The King begins to uncontrollably sob, he gets off of his thrown and embraces the servant in his arms. He says to him, "You have done it, you have found something to make me happy when I am sad and sad when I am happy. I am forever in debt."

That day in the Kingdom a servant was saved from expulsion, a crowd remained perplexed, and a King remained misunderstood.

The servant did not understand and asked the King, "My Kind I am sorry, but why is this ring the answer to your question... it is only a ring." The King responded, "You did not read the engraving?" The servant remains anxious, "No my King, what does the engraving say?"

The King responds, "This too shall pass."

december 23/24th 4:06 a.m.

    She couldn't help being drawn to him, his mischievous smile that seemed to hold something back, the air of power that surrounded him, the fire he walked with, self-assured, confident, worrying only about himself. He was untouchable.
    He was everything she dreamed of becoming, although he was only human. He worked hard to achieve his wants, needs, desires, while she could only dream of having the ability to pursue her own wants, needs, and desires. She daydreamed day and night, wasting away, many plans that could have been but never were; she didn't realize her potential, and when she did, she ignored it, keeping it hidden to avoid moving on with life - one of the things she wanted - for fear of change. She could never be like him in that way, which she knew. Seeing him, his eyes meeting hers, fleeting smiles exchanged, she knew it was nothing short of fate.
    She wanted him to save her from himself. He never would.
    She looked to him with questions, fears, an open wound waiting to be healed. She believed he had all the answers, that he was all-knowing, an otherworldly force that could save the day, much like a superhero. She couldn't face the reality that he was a man, only a young boy struggling to keep it together for himself. He too looked up at the moon in wonder, she seated on his lap, gazing through the window with longing eyes. His words would cut her like a jagged blade, always the same question, What are you looking for? She never knew how to respond that she didn't know, her eyes were drawn to the moon, shrouded in mystery and enchantment. He didn't realize she often looked at him that way, absentminded, dreamy, curious eyes that wanted to know more, more, she wanted to know all. She couldn't handle the truth.
    Small things set her off. It was never the big picture, it was always things that could be changed but failed to come to the surface until they became problematic in every aspect of their lives. It was for that reason that they argued publicly, unable to mask the anger that they had suppressed for so long, an anger igniting inside of them, impossible to ignore much less stop. They would shout, throw things, drawing attention to themselves, one of her biggest pet peeves. He didn't care if they looked at him or not, he only saw her, the way her lips moved rapidly, spitting out words, hands making gestures to express her fury which she couldn't contain, causing her to occasionally throw things. Excitement would run through his veins, ready to fix the problem at hand, but it was never that simple. The problem, whatever it may be, was not usually able to be solved with the wave of a hand. It would not go away overnight, she would not forget about it for years, the problems would nest in the back of her memory, rotting away, the stench a reminder that awakened when they would argue about a matter at hand, but unable to resist the previous dilemma she would bring it up, throwing it at him without warning, leaving him to fend for himself blindly.
    She had bruises on her arms, thighs, neck, his fingertips squeezing tightly to leave an imprint which reminded her he loved her, he wanted to be as close to her as possible but she felt it was impossible. He was only a memory, even when he was near, even when he was right next to her, even when he was inside of her. He was never close enough. She craved to be consumed, the way a piece of paper is engulfed by a fire, taking all, leaving ashes. She wished to be his all. She craved his taste, the smell of his hair, the feel of his rough hands, but most of all she missed the way he spoke her name quietly, the way you would a secret. She wished her name were beautiful, soothing as a lullaby, or captivating in its beauty, or different, at least. She wished her name was Luna. It was hypnotizing, exciting, bold, mysterious.
    From a young age she knew of her darkest desire, she was in touch with her worst fears, she faced her faults daily. She knew how cruel and heartless a human being could be, not of evil but of everyday people with many faces, point of views, desires of their own. She knew what they could make that person do. She knew, from the time she was a young girl of about five. The feelings of knowing seemed to come to her without having experienced the ways of another's cruelty first-hand, like intuition it hit her.
    Sitting in her man's lap, head cradled into his chest, tucked under his chin, she admitted that she knew he was hers from the moment their eyes met. Taken aback, his eyes ask dozens of questions but hold them back, waiting for her to speak up, knowing that if he asked "the wrong thing" she would shut up, feeling attacked. Sensing it was alright to talk, she told him of how she felt when he looked at her, the intuition she had spoken about before resurfacing. The urge to talk to him was like an itch unable to be reached: she knew she would regret it if she didn't. He listened carefully without saying a word while she gave details about how his eyes pierced through her, setting her on fire, electric once more. When he first spoke to her, she released a weight in her chest, the satisfaction of knowing that she would belong to a man she had only dreamt of hitting at last. What she didn't share was how she knew she belonged to him in a past life and that they were destined to be together in this one, even possibly in the next. That was why, when he looked at her, the feeling of unease that she carried most of her life melted away, satisfaction hitting her unexpectedly: he was enough - he was everything. His masculinity was intense but it excited her, encompassing her child-like ways, too precious for the outside world.

have you ever drowned in a pool of your own blood and been resuscitated by yourself after entering the 9 circles of hell? you enter one hell for each month, and at the end you are reborn again.

the first month, you are forced to watch a movie of your former lover's future love life, the day their sky wasn't your favorite shade of gray anymore, their wedding day, their children growing up in the arms of another, the ending of all endings. you cannot leave the theater, you cannot cry, you cannot scream, only apologize on a cycle like the mixtape you played on repeat that they gave you the day they first told you they loved you.

the second month, your demons circle you for 31 days straight. they tell you the stories of your past you swore you forgot, the knives you though you pulled out, put back in the drawer, and locked away are in their hands. they sing songs of everything that has gone wrong. they wrap their festering arms around your shoulders, they leave oil stained kisses on your neck on the same places all of your previous lovers did. they hold your hand like your mother did, they take you in their arms like your father did. they tell you they love you, you begin to believe them, and on the 31st day they leave, abandon you, the bitter iron taste that is all too familiar enters your mouth.

the third month, you are on the fourteenth floor of an abandoned mansion. salvador dali has painted a mural of what could have been before you drowned in that ****** sticky murky mess of red upon a wall, and you are forced to stare at this for two weeks. on the 15th day of this month van gogh appears in the corner with a box. you open the box and it is of course, his ear. he can see the monstrosity of fear upon your face, you see him open his mouth, you can see the pain escape his lips, but you cannot hear a thing, you look to the wall next to you and a the glow of the burning mural of what your life could have been lights up a wall of ears. you see yours in the center. you cannot hear the fear, you cannot hear the birds, you cannot hear the songs. your past and future are both now long gone.

the fourth month, you enter a white room. a projector projects every memory of your mother from the time you were in the womb to the time she saw your blood surface and your name headline the obituary. every projection of the memories of your father have a slit through the middle, and you swear to god for a split second you see yourself flash across the screen trapped in the barrel of a syringe with each of these memories. you are held captive in this room, this jail cell, with every broken memory that has led you to drown. you cannot cry. you cannot scream. you cannot even hear your own happiness, you cannot hear your mother's voice or the last time your father said i love you. the words goodbye pour as ***** out of your mouth.

the fifth month, you awaken confused as to when you left consciousness. you are in a wooded area, there is a phone stuck to the tree, and you can see the phone vibrating. you answer, though you cannot hear, the leaves on the trees begin to fall off and make out the words of those on the other end. it is the last words of all your friends, the words they screamed after they realized they would never see you again. you try to expel the words that you wished to tell from your chest, from your lungs, but the blood is still oozing within your throat. you are hopeless. you drop the phone and climb the tree hoping to see some type of sea that could help you be free.

the sixth month, you are drug out of the tree by the demons that you began to believe loved you. they drag you out to a sea, they throw you in it, the salt burns the holes where your ears once were. while under water, you see every fetus you will never have, every broken bottle that touched the lips of those you love, every bit of ash from the cigarettes that killed the good cover the sea floor. you have forgotten how to swim and the light is beginning to fade, someone, something, pulls you out. deja vu of exiting your mothers womb washes over you.

the seventh month, a book of every word you ever spoke is placed upon the dirt of the sea bank. you sit in silence and reminisce with your own history book. you can hear the waves, you realize the salty sea fertilized your eardrums, your ears are back in tact. you find some unsettling peace in this place. this month seems so short. so distant. so incessant.

the eighth month, you are drug into a room by those ******* demons again. in the room is every god you've ever known of. they convince you that you were never evil, that your omens were not the demons you have met, they tell you that there is future, there is light. they tell you that you can return. they spend the first three weeks dwelling on the positive things you placed into the world. during the last week, they explain their personalities, each of them, their multiple personalities. they expound on their traits, and god do these traits sound so **** familiar. jesus hangs from the ceiling, and jesus tells you that there was no light, no truth, only the trees. the ******* trees. jesus tells you that he died for himself, not for you, not for them, not for his father. he died for himself, to remove his own weight of pain. god sheds a tear, buddha holds his hand, mother nature hands you a bouquet of wildflowers. they vanish shortly thereafter.

the ninth month, you are still locked in the same room. you realize the room is actually just one solid mirror, the floor, the ceiling, the walls. you realize you were seeing reflections of yourself the entire time, you realize you were speaking to yourself. you realize you actually could speak, that you weren't choking on your own blood. you stare into your own eyes, you ask god for forgiveness. the room goes black.

you awaken in a hospital bed with a bouquet of wildflowers in your hand and a notebook the size of a bible on your chest. you open the notebook and page after page is every ending note you had ever wrote.

you flip to the back cover of the notebook.
it reads: you are forgiven.

I could always tell when it was just me in bed, instead of the two of us. I opened my eyes to the darkness and the alarm clock glared the time at me. 1:46 in the morning was no time to be awake on a week day but all too often, I found myself awaiting his return that never came. Lying on my back, I looked over to the mess of sheets and comforter next to me that harbored the absence of my husband.

The house was quiet and I couldn’t tell what room he was in, if he was in a room at all, but rather casing the walls, his invisible gun between his fingers as he secured our fort. I threw the covers off of me and stepped cautiously into the night. He had closed the door after leaving the bedroom and when I opened it, I could see the dull glow of the light above the stove coming from the kitchen up the stairs.

I was careful walking down the stairs as not to scare him if we both came around the corner at the same time. Peering over the railing, I could see Kenny at the dining room table. He was shirtless and hunched over with his forehead resting in his palms on the table. The dull yellow bulb softly illuminated the kitchen and Kenny’s shadowy figure paced on the floor next to him with each breath he took.

My bare feet were quiet against the hardwood floors as I stepped off the final step. I heard the faint sniffle of Kenny’s nose as I stepped into the yellow light. I took a deep breath and leaned against the counter next to the sink.

“Kenny?” I whispered and when he didn’t answer, “Baby?”

He stayed quiet but I knew that he could hear me. I watched his back rise and fall; his breathing steady, letting me know that he wasn’t in the middle of a flashback. I walked over to him and squatted beside his chair at the table.

“Kenny, baby,” I said quietly, then cautiously rested my hand on his bicep. “Baby, talk to me.”

“I don’t know what to say,” He said, “it’s the same thing every time, Maggie.”

He kept his head in his hands and I saw a few tears drip to his thigh where his boxers didn’t cover.

“I want this ******* ringing in my ears to stop,” he said a little louder, “when I close my eyes, I don’t want to see someone’s body torn to shreds.”

“I know,” I whispered, “I wish I could help.”

“I wish every time you rolled over in bed, I wouldn’t roll over too and almost choke you because I think you’re an enemy.”

I’d never heard him admit to almost hurting me. I’d known that he’d sometimes thought I was the enemy and almost pinned me down to choke the life out of me, but he always realized what he was doing. He’d never gone as far as putting his hands on me.

“Maggie,” Kenny whispered to me, bringing me from my thoughts, “sometimes I wish I would’ve died over there.”

“Don’t talk like that,” I said, interrupting him quickly.

“It’s true, Maggie,” he said, “I can’t stand living like this. I don’t want to live like this anymore.”

A car door slammed outside, a teenager arriving home late and Kenny pushed his chair back, stepping around me to look out front through the living room window. I sat back against the cupboard of the kitchen, feeling the cold floors beneath my bare thighs where my underwear didn’t cover. Pulling my knees up to my chest, I wrapped my arms around my legs, hugging them as tightly as I wish I could hug Kenny.
I could hear him walking through the house, looking through different windows, before he finally returned to the kitchen, peeking through the small window above the sink. I looked up at him from my spot on the floor as he leaned against the counter.

“I think it’s safe now Maggie,” he said.

I didn’t bother trying to tell him that we weren’t in any danger. I wasn’t looking for an argument at two in the morning. I looked up at him again as he stared into space, focusing on something, if anything across the kitchen.

“Do you want to go back to bed?” I asked him softly, touching his shin that was beside me.

“Sh, no Maggie, I think I hear something,”

I wanted to tell him that there was nothing outside, there was nothing inside, nothing was going to harm us but before I could, he gripped his head and ears, and his face displayed his pain. I could tell that his ears were ringing and in his head, he’d told me before, it sounded and looked like bombs going off.

“Make it ******* stop,” he said, “please make it stop.”

He was gripping his head harder as if trying to get inside his skull. Slowly, he slid down the side of the counter to where he sat beside me, his knees folded up as he tried to get the ringing to quiet down. He was beginning to surrender. I unwrapped my own legs and put my arms around him, stroking the side of his head with my thumb. After a few minutes, he began to relax and lean into me. I hugged him tighter and felt his entire body begin to loosen as he rested against my chest, tears landing on my T-shirt. A few more minutes passed and he’d completely laid down against the hardwood flooring on his side, his cheek now on the thigh of my outstretched legs. I continued stroking his shoulder, his neck and his head. I could feel his tears coming one at a time, landing on my bare leg. Kenny rested his hand on my thigh, hanging on as if he was about to die in the battle of his own head.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Me too.”

It was half past noon as Professor Lynch came barreling into the drive way in his hunt for the unknown. His actions so urgent he forgets to even close his car door. He sprints up his steps and swings the door open to his house and there it was.

Why was he is such a hurry? Well this goes back a little over a week prior when he had some guests over for the first time since he bought his new home. It was the day after he had finally unpacked the last box. This was a gathering to celebrate his new job as a History Professor at the University of California and his beautiful new home. The gathering was going as planned till he heard a strange noise coming from the basement.

The guests didn't hear this noise and continued having a great time as Lynch went downstairs to check it out. As he opened the back door he heard some things fall over as if an animal had skirmished to the noise of the door. As he continued down the stairs after this so called animal his heart about hit his stomach. He has a small door in his basement he figured was used for child’s play made by the family before him. So in his unpacking process he had left it alone. Well he could of sworn he seen the door **** to it turn. Too afraid to check it out on his own he ran upstairs. Trying not to embarrass himself he quickly ran up the stairs into the main room and continued the gathering as if nothing had happened.

Once the guests left he found himself sitting in his living room saying to himself “it was nothing, you’re just seeing things.” He talked himself into believing this because he hadn't slept much in a few days with all the unpacking trying to get ready for the new week. So he finally decided to go to bed and get some rest. It wasn't for another week till he had started to notice some strange occurrences. He came home from work that day and noticed his refrigerator was left open. Lynch however was uncertain on if it was him who left it open so he shrugged it off.

Another day had passed and again he came home from work and his refrigerator was open again. This now struck an uneasy feeling; he had made sure he closed it before work today. As he continued through his house with caution he had seen nothing unusual nor seen anything more out of place until he walked by the basement. He once again heard this skirmishing sound of what seemed like an animal trying to escape the basement. As he entered the basement the sound stopped. He was frightened but hadn't been threatened in any way, so he continued throughout his day although not in ease. He was uneasy about this happening a second time so he decided to come home early from work and see if he could catch whatever it was in action.

So at work the next day as he planned he left work early, about half past noon. “Professor Lynch came barreling into the drive way in his hunt for the unknown. His actions so urgent he forgets to even close his car door. He sprints up his steps and swings the door open to his house and there it was.” This was unlike anything he had ever seen before. Something so frightening, so terrifying his jaw hit the floor. Before Lynch could speak a word, he was snatched and drug into the basement through the little door he thought was used for “child’s play.”

-Joseph B Schneider

Sadness came to me tonight
I said, nope, I'm not ready yet
So I put that sadness in a box
and that box under my bed.

Anger came to visit me next
I said, I'm definitely not ready for you
So I stuffed that anger in a bag
and it went under too.

I thought I was safe for the night
and then in came impending Doom
This one was a little bit stronger
so I had to lock it in it's own room.

So when I saw Pain walking up the street
I knew it was coming for me
I said, I guess it's time to accept defeat
So one by one, I set them all free.

I cried with Sadness
I screamed with Anger
I mourned with Doom
I whined with Pain

And then Happiness came
and I watched the others disappear.
We shared a happy life together
when I finally stopped living with Fear.


*mndi

“You know the worst thing I ever saw?” He asked.

I sighed to myself, took another gulp of beer and fixed him with a look of half-interest. He was drunk. A complete ****-up and a bore when he's drunk. I don't know why I drink with him. That said, he probably thinks the same.

“What's that?”
“Bedsheets over the benches in the church yard.”
“Ye-what?”
“Bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.”
“The homeless. Right.”
“I'll get us another drink.” he says, “then I'll start where I left off.”
“Oh, good.”

He comes back with two bottles. We drink and we start talking about football. We're just about getting by before he raises his palm to his face.
“Aw, ****. I forgot, yeah. The worst thing I ever saw. I never told you.”
“You did. Bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.”
“Yeah yeah, but that doesn't really say much, does it? You're probably wondering to yourself why that would **** me off so much?”

Not really. He's the type of no-action, all-caring, bleeding heart that sits on his fattening **** every day, 'liking' rhetorical captions over pictures, and signing petitions to axe some ***** politician or other.
“I guess. Shoot.”

He shoots.
“I wanna burn down the churches. Seriously. Stupid ******* religious folk. I bet they go home and post pictures up of themselves, all busy in the soup kitchen, ladling minestrone into some poor *******'s styrofoam bowl.
“They'll never touch them. Always at arm's length. You don't wanna breathe in the pathogens of the anti-people...”
He slurred a little, went to carry on, but took another gulp of beer instead.
“What does that have to do with bedsheets over the benches in the church yard?” I took a gulp myself, this time watching him with a little more interest. Probably just because he looks like he could spew at any moment.
“You're not letting me finish...”
He finishes his beer, gets up, almost bumping into his piano-***-keyboard. He's off to the fridge again. I have a look around while he's out of the room. I can hear him ******* in the kitchen sink.

I've seen the place a million times before but it always has a whole bunch of new **** tacked up on the wall or else bundled in the corner. He's no hoarder, just gets bored and throws out all the stuff he bought the year before.
There's a framed picture of himself on the wall, cradling his Fender as if he's a master of the arts. It's signed, too.
I've seen him play. Probably will tonight. Wouldn't be surprised if he's written a protest song called: bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. The old **** can't even hit an F major with regularity.
He'd decided to put up his vinyl sleeves on the wall like a 17 year old would with an array of **** pop-punk band posters.
Blink and you might think he's the new John Peel or Phil Spector. Stare, and you'll realise he's twice as crazy, yet half as talented and half as interesting to listen to.
His room is like a CV to show to interesting, young indie women. Shame he's hitting forty now,and hasn't been to a club in about 3 months.
Last time we went he just sulked in the corner and got too drunk. He cried in the smoking area about his job before going round and asking attractive girls whether they think he's too old to be out. Most didn't even bother to give an answer. Probably best.

He comes back in with more beer.
“A-anyway...” He says, groaning a little like an old man as he settles back into the chair. “As I was saying...” he sloshes beer on the carpet, rubs it in with the heel of his shoe. He spits on the mark and then rubs again.
“What I was saying was that the church would be a whole lot more useful to the homeless if it was burned down. A condemned building is a whole lot more useful than being looked down on by holier-than-thou, middle-class, white Christians.
“They go home after an hour, bolt the church doors, and then watch TV in their brand new conservatories that they spend several thousands on. Just give the losers a place to shoot up and sleep in safety. That makes sense, right?”
“I guess so.”
I couldn't think of a change of conversation. So I just drank some more and pulled out a cigarette. It's nice to smoke inside for a change.

“It's a ****** ******* awful thing. If people were actually religious, they'd throw open their ******* doors for everyone. It's what Jesus would do, right?”
“Right.”
“He'd have all the **** in his bedsit, piled in like sardines, spreading TB like wildfire.”
“And that's a good thing?”
“Well, it can't be any worse, right? Sleep's important. I learned that the hard way.”

He didn't learn it the hard way. Not really. He's a self-motivated, self-harming insomniac. He spent his teenage years listening to bad music and staying up too late ******* over his French teacher. I should know, I mostly did the same.
He hit the **** pretty hard during college. Never really looked back until recently. ****** him up worse than you'd reckon. He couldn't sleep without the stuff. Man, if you'd have seen the poor guy whenever he couldn't get hold of some for the night. Eesh.

“...you know what I mean though? I'm sick of charity. Those fun-runs you get. A load of women in pink pretending that they care about breast cancer, before posting a million and one pictures up of them in ankle warmers and a kooky hat...”
“**** of the Earth.”
“Yup. Right up there with the women who have 'mummy' as their middle name on Facebook.”
“Yeah.”
“Honestly though, it's the laziest form of charity. Throwing a couple old, mouldy bedsheets out on some bird-**** bench made of wood and ancient farts...”
“It is pretty lazy.” I drank some more.

It was getting late. We swallowed three temazepams each, moved onto the cheap shiraz once we ran out of beer. We leant back in our chairs, barely talking and letting Tame Impala supply the conversation for us.

“You know what?” I ask, pretty much out of nowhere. His eyes have narrowed. He's not sleepy, just ****** on ***** and tranquillizers. He takes a moment.
“Huh?”
“From what you were saying earlier... you know, about the bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, why don't you?”
“Why don't I what?”
“Burn it down.”
“The church?”
“Well, you go on about being lazy and ****. Here's your chance. Help the homeless. Break the locks, pour the petrol, take out a few bottles of wine if you find any...”
“Now?”
“I guess so. Homeless folk are dying of pneumonia out there. Not a second can be wasted.”
“I dunno. I didn't mean I had to do it. I was just saying...”
“I guess they were just saying too.” I felt like I was being a ****, so I changed the subject to women I haven't laid.

I stumbled home leaning on my bicycle all the way. Daylight was just about visible off in the distance. I passed two homeless guys on the way back, gave one of them a fiver, the other one my big mac and the last of my cigarettes (well, leaving a couple for myself).
They said thanks, god bless you, etc, etc. I carried on walking.

I woke up the next afternoon with a mouthful of sand and in desperate need of a hangover ****. I hadn't shaved in about two weeks and there were dark circles under my eyes. I thought about going out to the diner for a full breakfast, but strange people were beyond me.
I ordered a pizza full of meat and grease and garlic sauce instead. I text him to see if he wanted to come over and nurse the hangover with a little ****. Watch a film. Get drunk again. He still smokes it on special occasions, and this ******* of a hangover was pretty **** special.
No reply, and I end up rolling up a joint for myself, smoking it by the window and watching the magpies peck around the grass. It's nice out.

The pizza guy comes. He's holding the pizza up like a map, calls out in a bored sort of voice: “Hello sir. I've got a large Palermo Pizza here, with a side of chicken strips and a can of Dandelion and Burdock?”
I say yes and he hands it over.

I tip him with the coins still left in my wallet from the night before, and he sheepishly says he picked up my post for me as well.
I look down at the pizza I'm holding, and there's a few envelopes that look suspiciously like bills, rival takeaway leaflets, and the local paper. I say thanks, give him the best sort of smile I could, and then close the door.
I turn on the TV. I forgot the England match was on. I turn over to something more interesting. There's nothing, so I switch back over. Before I open up the pizza, I take the paper. A small-town existence, nothing ever happens, but I could do with a new job.

The front page is on fire. A church has been burned down in the early morning. A forty-something man has been arrested and then taken to hospital for severe burns to the face. A load of children's art has been lost, along with countless Bibles, prayer cushions, and vaults of cash.
“****.”
I read through the article. The whole place was gutted. Nothing could be salvaged. Nothing could be redeemed. In the corner of the picture, through the red, green, and blue dots, I could just make out some bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.

I am missing you
more than I thought I could miss
a stranger like you.