caveat emptor

The Mighty Delusionist

My life will be a storm one day. I will run, mad and soaked to the bone, splashing through fields of marshy puddles. Lightning will split the dark afternoon skies of my future. Thunder will try to drown out my singing. I know it will happen, and I welcome it. Rain down on me. Try to wash me away. I will laugh louder than your maelstrom. I will open wide my long, strong arms and embrace your tempest. I am more of a storm than you will ever be. When the clouds break and the sun shines down there will only be me, smiling and satiated, drenched in the violent futility of your passing.

We are legends, people. Our every banality is epic. Our every mundanity is heroic. We are stories the universe tells to frighten its children around the fire. We are monsters, titans, gods and myths. When you walk the earth today, shake the ground with the power of your mystery and glory. We are the greatest thing that has ever happened to us.

Quiet and unassuming behind this computer in this otherwise insignificant coffee shop, no one would ever suspect that I am the single most amazing person in the universe, the main reason this place exists at all. People glance at me and glance away, unaware of what they’ve seen. I watch them come and go and I wonder when they’ll realize that this was as close as they ever got. If I catch their eye I just smile and nod. I could wink and they would explode, but I just gesture a subtle hello. Can you imagine?

Hello, friends. I hope you feel as amazing as I pretend you are.

Later. Love.

To the Fat Kid I Remember

I suppose I should apologize to you, fat kid, that I just remember you as the fat kid. I remember how you used to sit in the dirt and draw pictures while everyone else ran and played. I guess it was because you were so fat. I guess running and playing would have been hard for you, what with all the fat and everything. I remember once when the kickball careened past the catcher and headed, full-speed, straight for your head. It bounced off and you fell over backwards in the dirt. Then you sat up and, even though you had a nosebleed, you didn’t look up or cry or get angry. You just kept drawing in the dirt. You didn’t even go get the ball and send it back to us, which would have been cool. You just sat there. And no one minded much, because you were the fat kid. No one really expected you to return the ball. George ran over and got the ball. And he asked if you were okay. And you nodded, without looking up. And he asked you if you knew you had a nosebleed. And you nodded. So George came back and we kept playing.

And now, after all these years, I remember you sometimes. I wonder how fat you got. Did you ever lose weight? I could probably find out. Someone would know. Even though I don’t remember your name, I could just ask people on Facebook, “What ever happened to the fat kid?” and they would know I was talking about you. I guess that’s a little sad, but what can we do about it? It’s just the way things are.

Hello, friends. I hope you’re well too.

Later. Love.

Something About You

The wide, wild fields are cultivated and tamed, but they will only stay that way for a season unless some human farmer watches them closely, keeps them in line, beats back the beast. Whether you cheer for the farmer or for the beast says something about you. Something. I’m not sure what.

Ants, as far as we know, have no social criticism. They don’t seem to stop and ask whether they ought rather to be some other sorts of creatures. “Perhaps we should be more like beetles or moths.” You’d never hear an ant suggest such a thing. Whether or not you think this is a good thing says something about you. Something. I can’t quite put it into words.

Armies of covert human anarchists sneak out at night and plant briars and honeysuckle amid the rows of corn and beets in cultivated fields all over the farming world. They beat and shape plowshares into hookahs. They are determined, it seems, to be more like beetles or moths. How you feel about these cultivators of chaos says something about you. Something. Mostly behind your back.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Inside Here

Her response to him at the time had been a kind of silent shriek, her face twisted for just an instant into a mask of horror, and a flight reflex. Her mother took her hand and moved her away quickly. When she glanced back over her shoulder his head lolled and she was almost sure that he looked at her. If he was angry or sad his strange, malformed face did not betray it. Her mother was talking at her about something, trying to fill her mind with other things, but she was lost in that boy, her young mind racing from horror to horror.

Some people believe the soul can leave the body, leave and wander the streets, invisible. Of course, some people don’t believe in the soul. Some people believe that everything you are is contained in your body machine, levers and joints and chemical emotions. Spirits don’t hang out at biology class, though. Souls congregate with the mad people, drinking and laughing and dancing. Spirits hang around the edges of poetry readings and jazz sessions. You can see them, sometimes, in the swirl of smoke under the dim lights. They growl at you through saxophones. They moan at you through blues. They whisper, “Never goin’ back, no no. Never goin’ back to that bag o’ bones.” Somewhere, in a hospital room that stinks of clean, the body breathes in and out. In and out.

He tries to grab for her shoulder to hold on, but he accidentally hits her pretty hard in the jaw. He cannot help it. His arms don’t work properly. “Oops!” she laughs, the smile in her voice more beautiful than anything else he’s ever seen. He would be a bit taller than her if you could straighten him out, but she’s strong. She does this every day. She lifts him from his chair and maneuvers him onto the bench in the shower. He has made a mess of himself again, but she doesn’t mind helping him, cleaning him up. He cannot help it. And she loves him. She loves all these people here in this place. She’s the best nurse they have. Years ago, as a little girl, through horror and shock at an unexpected encounter with a twisted, broken boy, she had arrived at the truth that shaped her life. “He’s a boy,” she said to her mother. “Inside there, he’s just a boy.”

Hello, friends. I hope you’re well.

Later. Love.

Field Mice and the Sun

The little islands of shrubbery in the parking lot of the grocery store I patronize are inhabited by tiny grey field mice. On Saturday evening I saw one dart out after a cricket and then dart back. Sunday evening, therefore, before shopping, I cruised slowly around the little islands and looked closely. I saw a total of fifteen little grey field mice. I tried to send them telepathic signals of friendship, but I’m not sure if they can receive human wavelengths nor whether I have such talents nor whether such powers exist. Most of the mice looked fairly friendly and open-minded, but one of them had a sinister affect and eyes that darted to and fro. They should watch out for that one, the one I’ve dubbed Lucian. Lucian has large ambitions and will stop at nothing to see them fulfilled. I am certain of this, and it makes me worry for Percival and Ethelia and especially for young Crispin.

In unrelated news, it’s been hot. Too hot. I often think to myself, “Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines.” I wish his gold complexion would more often be dimmed, and that more often would a fair from fair decline and be untrimmed by chance or perhaps by nature’s changing course. Do you ever feel this way?

The Mice of Albertson’s Archipelago are excited to have received a correspondence from cousin Nathaniel. He is passing through on important business, sent by the Mouse King William, and wants to stay for a day. Crispin can hardly wait to hear Nathaniel’s stories, which are always so exotic and full of adventure. Percival is worried, however. He’s heard rumblings of trouble stirring in the fields and fears Nathaniel may bear dark tidings. Lucian said something in the council yesterday about changes, and he grinned that sly, disturbing grin, glancing about to and fro.

Hello, friends. I hope you’re well.

Later. Love.

Guilt, Penance and Big, Floppy Shoes

Too much killing. Too much blood. How will I ever get clean? How will I ever feel innocent again? How will I ever get these children at this birthday party to notice me so the birthday boy’s mother doesn’t fire me, like all the other mothers before, for being the worst birthday party clown ever? I try to perform for them. I try to make penance for the evil I have done, to bring laughter into their lives, but I cannot help myself. I was a ninja for too long. “Where are you?” the children ask. I have slipped into the shadows. They cannot see me. When I make balloon animals, there is no squeaking. I am as silent as death creeping up behind you. I step out from my hiding place and the mother furrows her brow at me. “Maybe you should juggle or something,” she suggests. I could kill her from here in an instant with the tiny dagger I’m fingering under my clown suit. “Sure,” I answer. With surprising quickness I produce four beanbags from my baggy pockets. I begin to toss them into the air and catch them, juggle-style. But it’s no good. “Where did he go?” whines the birthday boy. I’m right behind you. You would never see it coming. I’m not getting paid again. I might as well slip away, silent as the night. But, since I’ll not be getting grocery money, I decide to hide and wait until they cut the cake. It looks pretty good. Spider-Man theme.

Hello, friends. I trust you’re well.

Later. Love.

Clues

Overcome, as it were, by a sort of random sense of longing, desire for desire’s sake, an aching lack of nothing in particular, I resolved to discover the truth behind it all, the principles that make this thing happen. You know what thing I mean: this world thing, this maddeningly slow blur of universe we’ve all gotten caught up into. I found, in the back of my closet, a good, reliable jacket, the sort that would not disappoint you in a pinch, and I filled the pockets with the trappings of survival: something to read, something to make a fire, a knife with assorted tools and blades, a compass, a flashlight. You know, that stuff. I looked around in the garage for a length of rope, but I found none. Apparently I had been living, up to that point, a ropeless existence. This was another clue, I suppose. I tried on my old work boots, but they were too stiff and uncomfortable, so I donned my trusty sneakers. And I set out. I set out to find the answers, to locate the edge of the universe, peel it up and look underneath. I ended up at the coffee shop, sipping coffee and talking to homeless men. When it got late I went back home for a little sleep and found my pocket-stuffed jacket sitting on the bed. I hadn’t even remembered to bring it. This  was another clue.

Hello, friends. I’m setting out again in the morning. Wish me luck.

Later. Love.

This Body and a Tree

For no reason whatsoever, I’ve been neglecting my health lately. I just quit… trying? Paying attention? Something. A trip to the doctor last week showed me the damage done. Not pretty. I’m back on a medication I should never have stopped taking. (The prescription refills expired in January and I couldn’t even muster the resolve to stop by the doctor’s office and get a new prescription.) I’m going in for more scolding and mandates on Friday. I’m hopeful that getting some of these things back in line will help me escape this fog I’ve been in for a while now. In the back of my mind, I’ve known this problem was growing, but I just chose to ignore it. Why do we do things like this? Well, I guess I shouldn’t say, “we.” I’m sure it’s just me. You’re too smart to be this stupid.

I’ve taken to talking to the tree outside my office. He’s a large Taxodium distichum, a bald cypress. We’ve been discussing freedom and motion. He’s been explaining to me that my society, human society, does not afford me the freedom to stay in one place all the time. “You’d be run off by someone,” he says. “Why are you still here? Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Run along.” He has a point, I supposed. “Trees,” he suggests, “are free to remain right here, to put down roots, to truly inhabit a habitat.”

Yesterday he told me about the day he finally grew taller than our office building. “For years I wondered what was on the other side of this building,” he said. “I asked the birds almost everyday, but they never talk back to trees. I’m not sure they can hear us. They’re so weird." I’m learning to read the “facial expressions” of trees as I talk to them more and more. He was smiling as he remembered. “Then one day, finally, my top branch peeked over the edge of the building and saw the roof and the trees and buildings on the other side. It was like my world doubled in size. It was amazing.” Today he’s several yards taller than our office building and he can see the pond and the running trail and the little bridge. “When the wind blows just right I can see the ducks sleeping.”

This body is the one constant in my life, I suppose. Everywhere I go I lug it around with me. When I’m chased off from one place I take it to the next. I suppose I should take better care of it, put down roots in it, plan to stay here for a while.

Hello, friends. I hope you’re taking care of yourself.

Later. Love.

Bloggy Personal Post, With One Ridiculous Aside

Spent most of Saturday loading my new work computer, a monster notebook that they call a “Portable Workstation”: 12 GB RAM, 8 processor cores, 1 TB HDD, 17” 1920 X 1200 screen. It’s SO much faster than my old notebook. Me likey. Totally worth the back brace I have to wear to carry it around. The power supply is a brick too. Huge and heavy. Ugh. But, the performance is worth the pain.

Sunday we signed this contract for natural gas drilling on a section of land that includes our subdivision. Not much for our little lot, a few hundred dollars signing bonus and 25% royalties on our small percentage of the total acreage. Probably a few bucks a month. No big deal. I’m not quitting my job or anything. I can split a burger with my neighbor once a month or something.

My son, River, has a second job interview today. It will be his first job if he gets it. Retail. Best Buy. They’ll work with his college schedule. He’s got a line on another job if this one falls through. We’ll see.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the universe, the emperor of the Octopus People of Tentaclon IV sips seven glasses of Artellien whisky and taps his remaining limb on the table in front of him, trying to draw the waitress’s attention to his one empty glass. He’s been drinking a bit too much lately because elections are coming up soon and he’s not that popular with the masses. If he’s not elected emperor again then he’ll have to go back to work for his cousin, Larry, at the book-binders. Jerry—that’s the emperor’s name—really hates book binding. Being emperor is a much better gig. He gets into all the coolest bars, like this one, which is very trendy but it’s hard sometimes to get the waitress’s attention. “You’d think being emperor would be enough to get good service,” he thinks to himself. Usually it is, I suppose, but Emperor Jerry’s not very popular right now. People think he drinks too much.

Susan is going back to work today. It’s only part-time for now, but still she’s nervous. Wish her luck. I’m very proud of her.

Hello, friends. I trust you’re well. Are you?

Later. Love.

The Edge

The picture of this place in his mind was of a perfect blue spring. The grass had been soft, not yellow and stiff, and was as high as his waist. On that day he had run faster than he could now imagine through this smooth plain up to the great landfall ahead where the grass stopped suddenly in a two-hundred foot plunge down to the sea. On that day his heart had almost burst with life, with youth, with love.

Rough stubble of dry autumn grass scratched and clawed at the raw flesh of his knees as he crawled. Grit and chaff packed into his bloody palms, but he felt nothing but an undifferentiated throb of agony. He could no longer keep his eyes open, so he crept blindly through the dense blades toward the edge. It couldn't be far now. Maybe just a few more feet.

He had never really believed in the next world, the place where the dead go. It had never been important to a man like him, a strong man of action, a fighter. As he crept toward that long plunge, however, the daydream of her waiting for him there was his only vision, in that green robe, not smiling or frowning, just that deep, calm peacefulness that she had always worn so beautifully.

His elbow gave out with a crack and he lunged forward onto his chest, his face sliding roughly into the dirt and grass. His hand shot out in front of him and, with a thrill, he felt it grasping in empty air, no grass and no ground. He had done it. He lie there panting for a moment before mustering the resolve to inch forward, creeping on his stomach toward the precipice. When he finally felt the edge with the side of his cheek, felt the cool sea wind against his face, he fought open his eyes.

Storm clouds roiled on the horizon. He could see the dim glow of the sun setting behind the gloom. The sea was rough. Seabirds called nervously to one other, anxious about the dark, ominous tempest moving in.

He didn't want to hold her somewhere else, in some next world. He wanted her here. Here, but not now. He wanted her here long ago, when they were both young, before all this violence, all this fighting and death.

He closed his eyes to rest for the last lunge into the cool, dark water. He died there on the edge just as the rain started to fall.

Hello, friends. I hope you're happy.

Later. Love.

The Robots

It wasn't a robot apocalypse, a war or a revolution, like everyone had always feared. They didn't turn against us or try to take our place. They just started ignoring us, going about their own designs. Now they're everywhere, building strange, nonhuman structures with indiscernible purposes. They won't even acknowledge us, much less clean our houses or build our cars. They just whiz by as though we aren't there. If we are in their way, our houses or our buildings or our roads, they just move us or tear us down. No animosity. No jealousy. Just a complete disregard. I wonder what we'll do?

In Colorado there is a mountain covered with metal structures. Twisted scrap metal and various bits of junk. It starts at the base of the mountain and covers the slopes all the way to the summit. At first the shapes seem random and abstract, but, as you walk through them, you begin to recognize outlines and symmetries. You squint your eyes, and you realize that they're people. Statues of people. People in various poses. People carrying out various activities. Humans. At the summit is the shape of a woman, her hands outstretched over all the others below. The mother? Are these her children? Do they worship her? No one knows for sure. Is this art? Religion? What does it mean, this mountain of people? Some artists, theologians and philosophers have theories, but no one really knows why the robots built it.

Yesterday I caught, for just a moment, a robot looking at me. I was sitting outside the coffee shop sketching a picture of the strange robot edifice that they constructed on the shells of a couple of bank buildings they had demolished. This robot was watching me from a few feet away. It had been passing by on some errand, but my sketching caught its attention. I've never seen a robot notice one of us before. It was... exciting. I wonder if we could be friends?

Hello, friends. And how are you?

Later. Love.

Dude Days

I used to be in a band called Beige Floyd. I think you could best describe our style as “Acid Easy Listening”, although some have called it “Country and Eastern”. We shunned classical notions of rhythm and tonality in favor of what we called “geometric relationships of frequency”. We used three drum sets, a harmonica, a rain stick, a washboard, a sousaphone and six electric guitars tuned to alternating parallel fifths to explore the spaces between classical harmonies and dissonant boundaries. Our one and only album, called “One Man’s Trash”, was a big hit among members of the band. The world was not ready for so radical a departure from the provincial, tribal beats to which it is accustomed, however, and so we had to disband about ten minutes into our first gig.

We have toyed with the idea of a reunion, but our members have scattered out to the corners of the city. One moved to Colorado. Occasionally I hear a new song on the radio and detect a hint of the classic Beige Floyd sound. It always makes me proud to have been a part of something bigger than myself, however briefly.

Oh well, life goes on. Things change. It’s like that line from the third song on “One Man’s Trash”. I don’t remember the name of the song, but the lyric says it all:

Life goes on. Things change.

Amen, dudes. Amen.

Hello, friends. I trust you're well.

Later. Love.

(originally posted September 17, 2004 on my cogito blog.)

Dark and Light

I saw the footprints of the chupacabra disappear ahead into the neighborhood of the others, a dangerous place where we do not go. Shadows crept up on me as the sun set, and fear touched me softly on the lower back, raising goose flesh and the hair on my neck and arms. High overhead and far below I could hear and feel demons writhing toward me in the gathering darkness. I thought about prophecy and blood. I thought about the medication. I remembered embraces wet with tears. For me the sky was a closet door hanging barely open in that lonely room, evil waiting for you to fall asleep. "There are too many openings in the head," I thought again. "Too many ways to get in." Ear holes and eyes sockets and mouths and nostrils. So many vulnerabilities. I read that black holes are eating all the stars. Wink. Wink. Wink. They're disappearing but you don't notice yet because there are just so many of them. When she left, half of the sun disappeared. No one else can see it, but I can. It isn't there.

Meanwhile, in the bright sunlight a world away, the barefoot girl in the sundress lays back on a blanket in the park and looks for shapes in the clouds. She stares up into the boundless blue, pale around the edges but deep in the middle, and there is not a cloud in the sky. It's okay. She doesn't mind waiting.

Hello, friends. I trust you're well. Please, do not betray my trust.

Later. Love.

Happy Susie Day

Although you're just 40 today, this past year has been your fortieth. That's how it works. (See: Math.) I have to say, it's been a hell of a year for you. Here are some highlights:

1. That stupid, evil little 5FU pump that made noises all night
2. Loose hair everywhere
3. Bandanas, bandanas, bandanas
4. Radiation tattoos and sharpie marks everywhere
5. Pincushion blues: IVs, infusions, blood tests, IVs, blood tests, infusions, pumps, IVs, infusions, blood tests, etc...
6. WoundVAC
7. Interal feeding pump flushing 600 times a day
8. Size 14 down to size 2
9. The funny curly-hair phase

Actually, you've been through a few different hair phases this year.

Lovely Beginning Phase

Lovely Mohawk Phase

Lovely Hat Phase

Lovely Fuzz Phase

Lovely Short Phase

Lovely Current Phase

And here we are, now, at the beginning of a new year of your life. I have no idea what this year has in store, but, whatever happens, I feel privileged to share it with you. You are the love of my life. My life with you has been so much more than I ever expected or deserved. You are, after everything, still just as beautiful as you've always been. I look forward to all the years we have ahead, however many that may be, one or two or sixty.

Happy birthday, my Susan. I love you. You are my favorite.

Date

I was thinking maybe we should get away, you and I. Just get away from it all, everything and whatnot. Leave it all here and run off. I was thinking we could disappear, forever, into the ancient towering forests at the beginning of time. We could live there for the rest of eternity, learning to be children of the trees. We could drink the falling rain, let it run over our limbs. We could learn to draw abundant nourishment from the rich, dark soil. We could listen to the singing stars, still blinking in the bewilderment of new existence. We could watch, each morning, the brilliant sunrise of the dawn of time. Just you and me and the world. We could lie down in the soft pine needles and sink into the cool warmth of the earth like seeds, waiting to grow. Or we could just grab a burger and a margarita. Or maybe a movie. Let me know.

Hello, friends. I hope you hope.

Later. Love.

Rutledge's Proposal

Having come honestly into the wherewithal to live willfully according to my own dictates, I am preoccupied often with the anxiety of choice. Too many options present themselves to the capable in this conquered wilderness, and an evolutionary heritage of preference for activities that promote survival infuses my trivial pursuits with a listless emptiness. I could sail the world in an airship filled with sighs.

For this reason—the ennui borne out of my dearth of visceral necessity—Rutledge's errand piqued my famished interest.

"Don't feel obligated to refuse me immediately out of consideration for my valuable time," Rutledge quipped from his place across the supper table. "Consider your judgement well and turn me down only when you are comfortable with the etiquette and eloquence of your rejection."

"An hour is ameliorated by waiting," I mumbled back. "Just not the hour spent therein. In the end it's a wash. Nothing lost. Nothing gained."

"Waiting for victory, perhaps, but surely not for defeat?"

"True, I suppose. Though perhaps every moment before defeat is more precious than every moment after."

Rutledge smiled at this and leaned back, sipping his brandy, reloading his wit.

"Almost you have convinced me, old friend," I said finally, after a few more moments of silent thought. "Bear with me, then, for one more inquiry."

"Of course." He sat forward in his chair, his obvious excitement somewhat surprising for a man of his age.

"There is a man I would like to send with you."

His brow furrowed. "What sort of man?"

"A worthless man with no skill fit to assist you. A burden to your venture, I daresay."

Rutledge was a quick one, and intimately familiar with my manner. Concern melted from his face into a smile of kindly resignation. "I'd be happy to have you," he answered, sincerely.

---

Hello, friends. I trust you're well.

Later. Love.

Whimsy

I remember Whimsy, how she would sit in the swing out back and we'd make up strange tales and laugh. I remember she always wore that ridiculous pink bunny costume and carried a bent wand like a senile fairy godmother. I remember the sadness that showed red in the corners of her eyes, only occasionally in the old days, but a little more as time went by.

And then Whimsy was gone. I'd look for her out by the back hedge where the gnomes used to hide, or over behind the shed where the bricks were piled into a fort, but she wasn't there. I wept for want of Whimsy many days, but, as all people do, I learned to cope.

Then I saw her, sitting at a bus stop near Ephriham street. I swerved into the left lane to turn and see her, but opposing traffic was thick. As I waited for an opening, I watched her. Her bunny costume was worn around the edges, and stained with mud up to the knees. She had dark circles under her bloodshot eyes. She was smoking a cigarette and staring down at the ground. I honked, but she didn't look up. I rolled down the window, as the bus approached in the thick traffic, and called out to her. "Whimsy!" She never heard me. She just got up and the bus took her away.

Who's to blame for Whimsy lost? The city streets are no place for Whimsy. She never talked about anything troublesome or sad, never a problem or woe. She laughed and we escaped, always only playing games. We both knew that. Then I became more certain, more blatant, less hopeful. I think she enjoyed the illusion more than I did. I came to fear it. I enjoyed the company, the art of the story, not the mystery.

I look for Whimsy every day, out of the corner of my eye. Sometimes I hear her voice, but I never catch a glimpse. Sometimes I wake up certain that she was just whispering in my ear, but she's not there.

If you see Whimsy, tell her I don't think we choose to believe or to doubt. Tell her some things are real and some things are not. Tell her...

Wait. No. Don't tell her any of that. Just tell her that I miss her.

---

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

(Originally posted on January 17, 2006 on my cogito site.)

In Our Own Eyes. From Our Own Mouths.

It is written, "In those days each man did what seemed right in his own eyes." I think that's really all you can ask from a person. Some argument can be made, I suppose, about the education and experience of people, about whether they have enough information to rightly decide what is right. Nevertheless, one should certainly not, under duress or direction, do what seems wrong and thereby live in bad faith with one's self. I would be satisfied to live in a society where each did what seemed right. It's a good start, I think.

I am more apt to imagine a scene in a rose garden than in a train station. I would more likely place characters on the shore than on a surfboard. Rather than speeding around a racetrack my characters will usually be stuck in traffic. It would be safer to bet that my protagonist would be talking to a tree than that my protagonist would be wielding a flamethrower. We all have these patterns. A haiku is more probable than a recipe. There is a good chance of rain, less chance of beer pong. I can't remember ever having written about rich, beautiful people sipping cocktails and gossiping at a soiree but I've written more than once about evil clowns. I don't know that I could ever write the great American novel, but I can make a pretty good comfort food dinner. That's cool.

Do what's right. Work with what's left. If you don't think that right is relative, just hold out your right hand, point toward the horizon, and spin.

Hello, friends. I like to imagine that you're well. I hope it's true.

Later. Love.