The Man Behind. The King of the Mountain.

I was asked to come out from behind the text. I get this request in one form or another from time to time. "There's not enough of you in your writing." It's just that I'm going through this period of being highly disinterested in reality and all of us, the people that populate it (except for you, of course). Also I feel empty, or used up, like I've said my lot. I'm reminded of the lyric that says

Hello, old friends.
There's really nothing new to say.
But the old, old story bears repeating
And the plain old truth grows dearer every day.

I love that lyric sometimes. Enough of all that, though. Here's something else:

The boy in the bubble bounced up one day
Asking if we might come out to play
We burst his bubble and sent him away
Because of the king of the mountain

A girl with a red dress and curly hair
She wanted a kiss at the top of the stair
We left her broken and standing there
A nod to the king of the mountain

The back of the room, the end of the hall
A knife to the wood of the bathroom stall
A scar on our cheek, a gut full of gall
And all for the king of the mountain

The top of the mountain is covered with snow
No throne looking down on the world below
And we prance and howl and we ravage and crow
And bow to the king of the mountain

That's all for today.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Are you?

Later. Love.