WHENEVER I THINK OF IT


Whenever I think of it

I see nothing but moon and star

Cuddle each other in an orderly manner

Lulling me with a cloying nectar 

That waters my tongue like fish in a river.


Whenever I glance at it

I recall its brightest teeth

That outshine the light of sun

And my heart sinks into its ocean

To enjoy aquatic feelings resting therein.


Whenever I get a chance to kiss it

Peacock and peahen we will become

To hyperbolize in realm of love

And encase ourselves in girdle of affection.


Whenever I think of it

I bring back those memories

When I smiled and cried out loudly

For the untold stories I buried

Which cage my soul in monsoon period.

Twists

 

We are a tangle.

 

He sees himself

As master-at-

Arms, twists

The appendage

Behind.

 

Transmogrifies.

Becomes the monster

On the table

From memory, from

Lore.

 

Dancer, statesman,

Retiree, friend of toxic

Masculinity.

 

Who can understand

Why anyone, who would

Hurl stones through

His windows.

 

Foolish tire-waisted

King of television, who

Hides behind shiny metal

 

Instruments of fear.

 

Who hides.


 


 

 

I used to think the Kingdom

Of God was rolling in like

A fire,

 

And I had better roll with it.

But couldn’t. It wasn’t me. I was a quiet

Soul on a bench.

 

An occasional tear.

 

As though I could summon

Another person inside, another voice that would

Be more valuable.

 

Gumption, you don’t have enough gumption

To stand. Wrong, but how it wrung me.

 

I had not yet found the right place

To find footing yet, like slipping toes

On the wet stones of a forest path.

 

As though a shout was all I needed

To prove myself – to whom?

 

I worried my head

Was too full

Even with a sensing muscle inside.

 

Such worries have so often proven

False, reifying identity,

Finding compassion where others find

Fences

 

And fences where others find welcome.

 

I am who I am, perhaps created, I believe

Created – angry, silent, bereft, doubting,

Certain, confused, clear, seeing the steam’s

Bottom on mud at once.

 

            Seeking.

 

A creature of calm, not cacophony,

But speaking, not only when spoken to.

Who would rather read one

Book I love

That a thousand so-so stories.

 

Who sits, listens, writes,

Letting a thousand pasts and possibilities

Ride by with a thousand worries

 

Calling from the backseat. Awake.


 

An Upside

 

Down

            World, the floor a floor

            The cavern walls,

Rising above, this is the cold winter world

I discovered as a teenager when a new path

Opened.

 

Want to come to my house?

I knew that invitation could lead to screaming

Diapered trouble. Found that bit of fear inside

That wouldn’t trade a moment for a life.

 

Rising above, a tundra sky, welcoming

Ice that will make you slide if you don’t watch

It. Watch it.

 

When will warmer

Weather come? The climate is cold,

Like standing in a stranger’s kitchen, like

Bobbing heads of angry on the way

Out the door. Like an earthworm heart.

 

Like the blank spot next to another

That won’t be filled. Anytime soon. No one’s

Home because someone’s always hiding.

 

Fuck it, I’m not hiding

Anymore. Tired of traipsing

Worries and woes behind me like a row

Of babbling, honking geese.

 

Bread is now baking in the oven, even

If it’s not my oven. Anymore.


 

Poison in the Yard

 

The common morel, of course,

populated our dinner table, popping

up like – well, you know.

 

We had a field guide with illustrations

that were a little too imprecise

for my liking. Glossy pages, the title

might as well have been:

 

How Not to Die Around the House.

 

Decades later, as I approach middle age,

I hear the phone ring, the static story buzz

of how my father insisted he had found

 

a safe one.

 

Cooking it, liquid like blood leached out

in the butter-laden skillet, nature’s final warning,

and my mother tried to convince him.

 

He insisted and, thankfully, made it through,

a testament that even the memories that grow

locally sometimes have death in the middle.

 


Recluse 

 

No, not the brown kind,

scrambling creature with legs

and venom, fiddle belly.

 

Such creatures are proof

of the story of Lucifer to me,

fallen from some ancient ago.

 

Yet, recluse/reclusive, still.

 

I think I know enough of fellow 

humans to suggest a modicum

of reclusiveness can be helpful,

 

the stirring of murmurs commonly

drowned by the din,

 

the steep mountain of self-

acceptance, laden with barbs,

packed with prevarications.

 

Yes, rejected, I reject; refused,

I refuse; distanced, I say now I am

in my starry cavern.

 

Don’t let my inner music 

dare to disturb.


 

Stillville

 

There’s a hollowed-out mouth in the rockwall

of mountain, where the trappings of an old still

are located.

 

Visitors to the park gawk at it, some laugh, and some

touch the marks of an alcoholic’s anger, wherever

such scars can still be found.

 

I myself was seventeen the first time I took

a drink of some cheap wine from a Sam’s Club

bottle and thought: What’s the big deal with this?

 

Others swallow a drop and are caught. But I have

been raptured by other invitations.

 

A bit further up the mountain, you can look to your left

and see a giftshop where items may be purchased

to remember the days of yesteryear: outhouses, smokehouses,

 

old women spitting tobacco into open containers

with a pinging sound, like shelling beans. It’s the insecurity

 

that comes from being born of such a place that makes

me switch my code by adding my g’s to the end of words.

 

But, of course, we all come from some hollowed-out

story in the side of some grander scheme.


 

The Paradox of Connection

 

I’ve been told that men only want to gather

and talk about sports or alcohol. 

Well, aside from bouncing a basketball back

and forth with my Dad in the hallway

of my childhood memory, I don’t know a damn

bit about sports.

 

Alcohol is lovely but sits in the back of my throat

in the middle of the night. Each sip is a sacrifice

of a moment of rest.

 

I’ve been told that, as a man, my best bet at friendship

with women will always end in some kind of desire

for romance for one of us. Not that I’m insanely irresistible,

but this is the When Harry Met Sally outlook on life.

 

This is also one problem with a binary existence.

 

Relegated to a digital space for connection, I marvel

at how much human experience is captured in the click

of a like, in the share of a post. Sometimes, someone will

jump into the conversation. This is dicey.

 


 

Don’t steal my thunder, man. Don’t jump in and subvert

the post. This is the only fucking outlet I have.

Connected with more people than ever before, that

titular paradox is the inherent distance.

 

But then sometimes, in a moment of masculine bonding,

someone will surprise me over a bite:

 

            Have you thought about…

            Have you read…

 

and my ears, were they as active as a dog’s, would

settle back into a contented conversation.

Dyunlekan was born in a place that is covered with deep woods. That place was still covered with white snow. Reddish-grey ground will be seen only in summer. What saw Dyulecan in the world is his father’s wooden cabin, green fir trees and nut trees, flannel dogs and deer that pull sledges, sky, cloudes and frog. He also knew polar fox, blue wolfe, brown and black bear and bogs of the thicket. Although his father, Mirgachan, told him about marvelous things of other worlds, he hardly believed that they existed. How could he believe the things he hadn’t seen?

One day a helicopter landed on the thicket. As every child Dyulekan was surprised looking at helicopter. His hair was as brown as bear and his eyes were as blue as the lake. He was coming towards Mirgachan, Dyulekan’s father, also was hurried: “ –At last you came, Victor – he said.

“ –Mirgachan, it has passed 12 years since we last met”, – a white man slightly beated on Mirgachan’s shoulder. “ – Where is your son, at that time he was a new born child. The time flies.”

Mirgachan met Victor, when Dyulecan was born. This all because adventurous Victor fifteen years before visited this village and got lost in the wood. Fortunately, Mirgachan on the sledge ran into him. He took Victor to his wooden home and gave him to warm himself. He made healing tea by verdures and gave him. These were the reasons of their making friendship. Uncle Victor told him about the world, where he lived and Mirgachan wanted to go to that world. So, uncle Victor took him to Moscow. Mirgachan came back with a lot of impressions and would always tell about another world with pleasure. Because no one expect Mirgachan had been there. Uncle Victor lived a week at Dyulecan’s cabin. During this week Mirgachan took him for hunting on the sledge with dogs. Mirgachan also went for a trip on the sledge with deer. Uncle Victor was very happy. Near to his leaving, uncle Victor invited Mirgachan to Moscow again.

“ – No, thank you,’ – he refused seriously, ”– I have been there. I won’t go again. Impressions which I’ve taken are enough for me to the rest of my life. Can my son Dyulecan go with you, if you don’t mind? I want him to have conception about another world. “

Uncle Victor listened to Mirgachan with a smile on his face and agreed to his offer. So, Dyulecan on the iron bird came to Moscow. To Dyulecan’s surprise, there weren’t any wooden houses. They lived as a flock of deer in the crowded square houses that reminded big stone boxes. Besides, there were glass building all around and they hang colorful lams everywhere. They shone day and night over noisy city. They cut the wood and build wide plains. They go in the cars, but not on the sledge. Just to please Dyulecan uncle Victor took him to places, where women have short hair like men’s and wear open closes. He saw uncountable new things like underground, internet, hypermarket, bar, disco clubs. They all were artificial and strange for Dyulecan. Because all people here talked using such senseless words as massage, “odnoklasniki”, “what’s app”, “facebook”, “office”. Dyulecan missed his own home. Because there people talked about sky, bread, wood and deer in his native language – tungus.




ABOUT THE AUTHOR: 


Sherzod Komil Khalil was born on 13th September in 1982 in Kitab  district, Kashkadarya region of Uzbekistan. He studied at Uzbekistan National  

University for Bachelor of philosophy from 1999 to 2003. Sherzod gained a master degree in Modern philosophy and history of the West from 2003 to  2005. 

He also studied for Higher Literature Course. In 2016, Sherzod Kamil Khalil’s book “Ileft Poetry” was published in the United States. His works have been published in more than twenty languages. Sherzod Kamil Khalil is the brightest figure of young writers of Central Asian literature.He currently lives in the Writers' Town in Peredelkino, Moscow.

 Now Sherzod Komil Khalil is a freelance writer

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

where did it all go wrong

 

i see my reflection

in the window

 

where did it all go

so wrong?

 

this woman wonders

where i lost my smile

 

i start telling a story

about a bathroom

floor and a horror

that visits my dreams

to this day

 

she tells me the name

of a great therapist

 

i give her the names

of all the drugs that

never worked for me

---------------------------------------------------------------

years of decay

 

loneliness

is a weapon

 

sometimes

a broken heart

never heels

 

these old bones

have seen the

horror of endless

years of decay

 

pain is the only

companion that

doesn't have plans

in the middle of

the day

------------------------------------------------------------

a kiss and a bottle of wine

 

whispers

in the rain

 

long lost lovers

realizing time

can't be made

up over a kiss

and a bottle

of wine

 

it's that cold feeling

of what could have

been that haunts every

soul that ever dared

to love or be loved

 

the scars come with

the territory

 

those that can't take

the pain i would advise

to learn to take the baby

steps first

 

love yourself

 

sometimes,

that is the

hardest

of all

----------------------------------------------------------

to deal with anxiety

 

i guess the easiest

way to deal with

anxiety is to no

longer give a shit

 

be careful applying

this to all aspects

of your life

 

most people won't

understand and label

you an asshole

 

the joy is that other

assholes will recognize

you and give you that

nod of approval

 

look there, a whole

new set of friends

----------------------------------------------------------

another morning appointment

 

my mother hates

the mornings about

as much as i do

 

yet here we

are again

 

another morning

appointment, this

time at the dentist

 

she swears she

only takes these

appointments if

they are the only

time the place

has

 

i beg to differ

and casually

remind her of

all the mornings

she had to wake

up early for work

 

you are retired

now

 

you are allowed

to enjoy it

 

she tends to forget

that

 

and i wish i wasn't

the one to have to

remind her

---------------------------------------------------

J.J. Campbell

jcampb4593@aol.com

https://evildelights.blogspot.com



https://goodreads.com/jjthepoet


J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. He's been widely published over the years, most recently in Jellyfish Whispers, Dumpster Fire Press, Terror House Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash and The Rye Whiskey Review. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Merry Christmas!

( The Phone conversation between James and Jane)

Jane: James, it’s been over eleven months in the waiting for Christmas
James: Jane, in as much as we’ve been waiting for this period to come; now it has. You know how time flies.

Jane: You’re right! I’ve been waiting for us to meet. You know what James?
James (sounding anxious): Jane, What’s that? You know I’m not good at guessing rightly
Jane: Just guess….
James (a bit upset): Just can’t!!

Jane: Okay. You know I miss you a lot.
James (Indifferent): Yea. Is that all you have to tell me, Jane?
Jane: So, what’s wrong with that? You know how upset I could be…when you sound that way

James: Oh! I’m so sorry. It was never intended.
Jane (jokingly): You’d better be. Anyway, apologies accepted. We are about being ushered into a season of love, merry-making and harmony. So, no need to harbor bitterness.

James: I agree. You’re right! Will be great meeting you after missing you…
Jane: I can’t wait to have my arms around your shoulders so tightly. You know what I mean
James: You can say that again, sweetheart. I roger that! (Smiles) It won’t be long, honey. Just two weeks to the time.

Jane:  I will be on leave before then and before your eyes would twinkle, I’ll be with you, saying, ‘Merry Christmas!’
James: Jane, I’ll be glad to reciprocate this. I dream of seeing you…like now! Merry Christmas, my dearest Jane! 

Jane: Merry Christmas to my darling, James. Again, Merry Christmas!
James: Got to go, Jane. Will call you back later.

Jane (concerned): Hope no problem…
James: Nah! It’s just that I got some other tasks on my work plate to attend. Hmmm…wished we could keep talking every day. Just have to go back to work. Merry Christmas in advance!

Jane: Merry Christmas in Advance, darling. Miss you!!! (Kisses the phone)
THE PHONE HANGS UP
The End


The Month of December

Welcome to the ‘December’ month
There are three other ‘’ber’’ months-September, October and November
But the month of December is different

It is a period for the season of Christmas;
the celebration of the yuletide
the month where the first day would be counted as a build-up to the celebration date-Christmas Day
the preparation of gifts items, other presents, food varieties and several decoration tastes starts long before the December 25th deadline

the month of December houses the ‘’Merry Christmas’’ celebration and paves way for the ‘’Happy New Year’’ wish.

Re-Entry into Society

By Fernando Sorrentino


Translated from the Spanish by Mary Esther Díaz

We spent our honeymoon in Bariloche and returned to Buenos Aires on a Saturday at dusk, eager to spend our first night together in our cozy one-bedroom apartment.
We found a cage in our bedroom.

It looked just like a parrot cage, only larger. It had a round base, nearly 3 yards in diameter, and vertical bars that came together at the top like meridians, forming a pointed dome that touched the ceiling.

To make room for the cage in the bedroom, our bed and our nightstands had been moved into the dining room, where the dining table and its four chairs had been pushed against the wall. It would be hard to open the cabinets, blocked as they were by the bed. Furniture, floors, and walls were badly scratched.

In the cage, there was a pale man with reddish hair. He seemed to be very clean and a bit anachronistic. He was wearing a black, double-breasted suit with gray pinstripes, a white, starched shirt, a dark tie, and well-shined black shoes. He held a gray hat on his knees; it was as clean, old-fashioned, and new as the rest of his person. Those period pieces, which looked newly-made, gave the odd impression of being props, a disguise, or some archaeological reconstruction.

We noticed all this a bit later. At first, Susana and I were shocked. The man waited for us to calm down, then said in a monotone:

“I wasn’t expecting you today. According to my information (he consulted a booklet) you were supposed to return tomorrow night. The time line is quite clear: ‘Friday the Twelfth, induction of the mentees; Saturday the Thirteenth, physical and mental adaptation; Sunday the Fourteenth, arrival of mentors.’ And today, if I’m not mistaken, is Saturday the Thirteenth.”

“You’re right,” I said, “We came back a day early. It’s not very pleasant to be back to work just a few hours after returning home.”
“What’s even less pleasant is receiving guests early. Mr. Rocchi will not be happy about this breach of etiquette, which, by the way, will also upset my plans for the night.”

“Mr. Rocchi? The owner of the real estate firm?”
“Who else? He, personally, made all the necessary arrangements, and they weren’t quick or easy. But Mr. Rocchi believes that all citizens should be extremely zealous about observing the laws and making sure they’re observed by others.”
I decided to set him straight.

“Laws? Which laws are those? And since when does that so-called Mr. Rocchi, a mere businessman, have any right to enforce the law?”

The man continued, still in a monotone:
“You, obviously, are someone who has not yet learned about life. Furthermore, your wedding celebration has prevented you from learning about certain changes introduced in real estate legislation. For example, Mr. Rocchi is now a magistrate. You’re a magistrate, too, within certain limits.”

“Me, a magistrate?” I gave an incredulous chuckle.
“Not quite: more of a magistrate’s assistant.”
“An assistant to Mr. Rocchi, then?”

“It would be unwise of me to get ahead of the official decision. However (and here he lowered his voice) I trust you to keep this information in strictest confidence.”
“And why are you telling me this confidential information?”

“My golden rule, sir, is knowing how to get along. Since we’ll be spending a lot of time under the same roof ….”
“A lot of time under the same roof?!”

“That’s right, sir. I’m older than you by at least 30 years. I have made very little progress; I’m at the lowest rung of the ladder of incarceration: I’m only an inmate. On the other hand, you are a free man who has already achieved the first promotion on the ladder of incarceration: the rank of assistant.”

Susana then exploded:
“I have never heard so much nonsense in my whole life! Simply put, the problem is this, ‘What the hell is this man doing here with his horrible cage in our bedroom?!’ Furthermore, who and why have they taken the bed and nightstands to the dining room, and who will pay for the damage caused by the movers?”

“My dear lady, I cannot condone the abrasive tone of your complaint. There are practical issues here. The bed had to be moved because, otherwise, the cell could not have been installed according to regulations. As for who will pay for the damages, the authorities plan to gather a team of laborers of various trades who will, for a small sum, return your furniture and walls to their original condition. But you asked, what the hell I am doing with my horrible cage here in your room. In turn, I would ask you, do you think I’m here of my own free will? Do you think I like being a prisoner?”

“I don’t care whether you are a prisoner of your own will or someone else’s. All I know is that I want your cage out of our bedroom!”

“It is not a cage. That term carries the disagreeable connotation of captive animals, which is just the opposite of the humanitarian spirit that guides our governmental authorities. Nor is it a cell or a dungeon. Its technical name is re-entry receptacle.”
This correction irritated Susana even more.

“Why should it be in our bedroom? Why in our bedroom? Why in our bedroom? Why? Why? Why?”
“Our Argentinian representatives and senators are very intelligent, educated, industrious, honest, austere, and altruistic people. In light of these virtues, they have ratified new laws that are jointly known as the Social Re-Entry Regulations and that .…”
"Do you expect me to believe,” I interrupted, “that you’re in our bedroom because of some new regulations?”
He placed his hat on his left index finger and, grasping the brim with his right hand, gave it a twirl as he shook his head.

“I am only an inmate. Within the system of incarceration, I fulfill the smallest of roles. You enjoy a rank one notch higher than mine and, in theory, should be better informed about such matters than I. Yet, in practice, it never works that way, as I have been in the system for many years, whereas you have just been admitted. You should be glad for your admittance, but you’re not. This phenomenon is not, by any means, initially present in the majority of people, but it always comes. When you have read the new regulations, you will feel not only joy, but also pride.”

Susana’s hands were balled into fists.
“If you will allow me,” the man added, “I could share some information about the Social Re-Entry Regulations ….”
“I’m anxious to hear them”—his leisurely manner was hard to take.

“The authorities, after examining the old system, found that it did not meet the needs of modern society. Therefore, they did not delay in replacing it with another one based on a consensus of ideas. Are you following ...?”

"Yes, yes, go on,” I said, waving my hand impatiently.
“The Social Re-Entry Regulation is based on two interrelated principles: A and B. The purpose of A is the progressive re-entry of the prisoner into society. The purpose of B is to replace the old system of collective incarceration units with individual incarceration units. Real estate firms distribute the prisoners among new domiciles and, thanks to this policy, the old jails are demolished and replaced by parks and plazas.”

“But why in new domiciles?”
“Old domiciles don’t always have a pleasant appearance and can negatively influence the prisoner’s psyche. On the other hand, a modern prison environment has a very positive effect on his or her re-entry into society. Besides, housing a prisoner brings great joy to the homeowners. It’s as if .…”

“Hang on a second: Susana and I are supposed to be your guards and you’re our prisoner?”
He shook his head in disappointment.

“The authorities no longer use the terms guards and prisoners. They use mentors and mentees, which are words better suited to Principle A of the system: the progressive re-entry of the prisoner into society. Don’t you agree?”
“But I see that both you and the authorities use the term prisoner.”

“Only as a poetic metaphor so the mentors will understand their obligations.”
“Obligations …?”
“Or shall we say, duties. These are simple and few. You need only provide me with food, clothing, medical and psychological assistance, exercise, toiletries, etc., of appropriate quality and quantity. In short, the material accouterments a human being as such deserves. The mentee’s spiritual rehabilitation is also provided for through recreation and information. I’m entitled to newspapers, magazines, books, television, and audio equipment .… Two nights a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays, friends of a certain age visit me. These gentlemen enjoy playing cards and dice, and it is expected that you shall offer them an assortment of snacks and beverages.”
“How many people would that be?”

“Never more than eight or ten. Likewise, I have not given up my sex life: on Saturday nights I am visited by Miss Cuqui, a pretty, charming, and educated young woman. A young woman of such merit naturally could never fall in love with me, so you must compensate her for her favors. I’m unaware of the exact fee, as I detest handling anything so banal as money. Instead, I enjoy art and, three times a week (Monday, Wednesday and Friday), I take drum lessons from a young rock musician who enjoys soft music and whose fees are not very high.”

“But,” Susana interrupted, “How are we supposed to manage so many expenses?”
“That's just my luck,” he said, shaking his head. “My other colleagues were housed in homes with good financial backing …. Alas, life can be so unfair …. I would suggest that you document the situation in an official letter, attaching a separate sheet in annex, in original and four copies, on official, sealed paper, which must be signed by a public accountant and a notary. The annex should bear a detailed account of income and expenses so that the mentors can prove financial hardship. The authorities take great pains to resolve any otherwise irremediable problems sustained by the mentors, and they may even be able to give you a mentoring grant.”

He suddenly fell silent, making it clear that he had gone too far by revealing this benefit. I had to ask:
"What does the mentoring grant entail?”

“It entails rights and responsibilities. As to the former, the authorities will try to find you both night jobs. For example, the gentleman could be a railroad employee at one of the suburban commuter railway stations. As for the lady, I don’t think Miss Cuqui would be opposed to initiating her in the art of her ministry. In exchange for these privileges, you will have to attend Comprehensive Mentor Improvement Training. The cost of this training is very low and is offered in the city of Luján.”

“Luján?!” I stammered stupidly. “It’s so far!”
“You are not required to request the grant,” he recovered. Then, with a yawn, he added, “It’s almost dinner time. I don’t have any special preferences; I will eat any kind of food, as long as it is abundant, varied, appropriately spiced, and accompanied by a red wine of excellent quality.”

Susana ran to the kitchen.
“I always take a bath before dinner. Here is the key to the cell.”

He handed me the key through the bars. I opened the door and he emerged. He was carrying a small duffel bag, in marked contrast to his formal dress. And now a paradoxical sense of health, strength, and well-being burst forth from this walking anachronism.

“You needn’t hold on to the key. I keep it to come and go, as I wouldn’t want to be a bother to anyone. Madam!” he called out, “Would you kindly turn up the heater a bit for me, please?”

“And you,” he said as he turned to me, “bring me a clean towel and, in preparation for tomorrow’s activities, don’t forget to buy me a large bottle of shampoo formulated expressly for dyed or tinted hair.”

I did as he said. He draped the towel around his neck. We left the bedroom and stopped in front of the bathroom.

“I would like to remind you that today, Saturday, is the day that Miss Cuqui comes. As shy as she is, it would be unsettling for her to meet with strangers. So, if you please, you and your wife should retire no later than eleven-thirty.”

Resting his hand on the doorknob, he added, “I shall be using the full-size bed. The authorities have failed to notice how very uncomfortable the regulation cot is. Oh, and clean sheets, if you please.”

“Um … and how long will all this … take?”
"You may return between three-thirty and four in the morning. Ring the doorbell once; if there’s no answer, do not ring again. Miss Cuqui is very energetic and, when she finishes her work, I usually fall into a deep and well-deserved sleep. In that case, check back in the morning at ten o’clock sharp – not before because I will still be resting and not after ten, as I usually take my breakfast at ten-fifteen.”

As he entered the bathroom, I managed to ask him:
“How long is your sentence?”
“It’s a life sentence,” he answered, as his words were drowned out by the sound of running bath water.

          In memory of my beloved K.