Ayanda Billie, nihilistic bees and the albatross keeper You’re fog. You’re a psychoanalyst. You’re a cell, a wilderness that knows to formulate the razor sharp reckoning of night feeding, swimming in the abyss of the lake with your tongue of grief and I look to your future and the steps you have taken with tokenism, with certainty. I find this stressful. I have taken to write in detail about the snakes that meditate in the sun. Let us wait, demonstrate a force for good. The day must need repair. You navigate the game world. I consult the gravitas of the day, the utility of humans, the function of wildflowers. What do you know of the arithmetic? Of Jung and the leaves of rubbish stumbling before you? Can you fix that muck? Poet, I want to make the world better, set you a task, reconfigure the aims of the world in front of me. The phoenix burns us. I don’t want to think of mindless conjecturing. All I see are problems worthy of investigation. I want choice. Poet, what is pain, the subject matter found in the atlas and the voiceless rabbit, the rusty nail at the bottom of a bucket, the concept of suffering branching out in seismic overdraft. The light has gone cold, chased out. Random driftwood is found at the end of the sea. I am waiting for the monster to eat me in the darkness. The birds shriek in the backyard in need of the moonlight that tours around the world. The shroud is inspired where it meets the horizon. The sun bends in its despair and I put it back together. Its strange continuity. Its neurology is not working right. We must kill it. The rough spark. Do you know what the appropriate response is? To meet the braver hypothetical. Look at the miserable sharks. See how they ably count sheep in this hard life. I admire the albatross keeper. I take the windswept eagle sham, my common humanity, Adler’s school of thought, the potential for power, the positioning of the elk’s turning point, the function of nihilism lecturing to the milk-fed vision of the universe within me. Tell the truth in your ignorance, the poet tells me from his university extracting laws, order from energetic chaos. I am religious. I obtain functionality from nature’s plant sap, unfurling the tragedy from the finite road that knows its determining limits. I don’t know if you have nerves, the capacity for bliss or joy, the character that makes up the abstract me is something that is undefined. To care for egoic self. Achebe, Soyinka are champions. We push ourselves out against the world informed by the unknown code in genes. I search for footprints in the river. Mzi Mahola, spiritual warriors and poetic choice I am alone. I stand alone. I achieved it. I am excellent. But poets, what do you believe in? There are days when I am not myself. When I speak terrible Czech. Mouthing, ‘I need you’. The trajectory shifts. I find arrows in my right hand. My sister is not here. I testify my heart out but nothing clicks. I adjust the turning point of my behaviour accordingly. The day is bitter. I wish to gather branch to me, to find ample loyalty in Christian fellowship and do you still have faith, poet? You see teeth, I am not young anymore. People have left me. I am undone. Radical achievement is a mountain, but I am standing in the strategy of the valley not caring about my pain. Milan Kundera is bemused; I am the outsider frightened of my future. I need help. Feel around. Find the words. but the poets here are social animals. Spiritual warriors with a key in their left hand that will unlock creativity. The party has left. I am a dying poet, but you are alive. You are the exit out of this planet. I have been betrayed by non-meaning. The goal tangles. Look for the specific yonder. Life is an imperfect funk sprawled across the landscape of wilful ingenuity calculating potential. Thrive! But only if you dare to find the truth. Cowardly deceit is staring at me, communicating its progress but the apt rubbish, its captain, the morality of the community’s aims, responsible sharks in a flock of suits can be found there. There is a coral bead in my mouth, grief in my head, tragic basics that keep me up at night, but I keep walking ahead of time, mall rats, crowds of people carrying birds. You are not me. I don’t write as you do. I am critic. You are wise. I am undergraduate and apprentice. You are masterful. I am green shoot, Canadian prairie, rural and jungle, Alberta, the mighty river fixed up with stars. My light is growing dim and I no longer have the capacity to speak happy. I want nothing to do with gravity. I can’t get a firm grip of it. Into the river. Into the narrative glut. I am fish. You are genius. Nihilism corrupts me. I know of malevolence, brutal natures, and the clouds are ignorant of bliss. Look at where I am standing solitude. I am a school of bright volunteers making headway. I know what torments female poets. We want meaning, calling. Poet you feel the joy, you pursue deeds, tidings manifest beneath your pen while I cut away sustenance with unformed loneliness. It doesn’t matter what I believe, there’s choice. I am severely depressed, in pain but understand the aim of life, making stupid plans, implementing fixed success. There’s a poetic choice in ceremonial life, in modal suffering.
Christopher Bernard’s Ghost Trolley chapters
The Ghost Trolley: A Tale for Children and Their Adults
By Christopher Bernard
Chapters 14 and 15
Chapter 14. Conflagration
The fire had spread like an angry flood while they were trapped in the shed. It was now a tempest of flames, the sky above it darkening into a forest-green twilight. The guards had escaped. A gale of scorching wind tore through the camp, picking the children up and pushing them over the ground as though they were no more than rag dolls. Flames shot above them high as church spires. The fire was like a living thing grabbing, devouring, crushing as it marched through the camp, stepping from tent to shack to barrack. This part of the camp was like a city under siege. The smoke billowed into a towering black cloud that turned half the sky into night.
They stopped and stared at the fire in awe. The intensity of the heat was turning their faces red. Then, seeing a break between two arms of the fire, they made a dash for it, Sharlotta grabbing Beely and little Johja by the hand.
Little Johja stumbled and fell and Sharlotta and the others had to stop.
“Where Mummy?” shouted little Johja.. “I want Mummy!”
“Crying stop!” Sharlotta shouted back.
But it wasn’t little Johja who was crying. It was Sharlotta, the tears falling uncontrollably down her face. Her sister had only said what she, too, was bursting with inside. And the enormity of the fire made the unthinkable possible.
What if their parents were already dead?
But she mustn’t break down now. Now she had to hold on to herself, not let herself go to the emotions going on in full tantrum inside her, or they might never get out of here. She felt as though she were being wrenched in two; she was leaving her childhood behind, it was disappearing down the wells of her little sister’s eyes. “Mommy we find! Promise I! Promise I! But we no can stay here. To where Mommy is, we must go . . .”
Little Johja stopped wailing and stared up at her sister with a look that said it wanted to believe her but wasn’t sure it could. Petey and Beely stood waiting. The younger boy looked like he was waiting to see if Sharlotta had stopped her tears before starting a crying jag of his own. At least that was Petey’s thought.
“We’ll be burned to a crisp if we don’t get going!” he said, truly enough.
Then Sharlotta heard in the distance behind them a small voice crying out.
“Wait! . . . Wait! . . .”
They turned and peered through the smoke blowing in waves between them and the distant shed.
The owner of the voice appeared as abruptly as an apparition out of the smoke.
It was Blue Moon, bruised from her struggle with One Eye and limping on one leg.
“Are you all right?” she demanded, in her froggy voice.
They nodded bedraggledly.
“Whatever happened to . . .?” Petey asked.
Blue Moon shook her head impatiently.
Sharlotta, feeling grateful but confused, wanted to ask the Korgan girl why she had rescued them, but there was no time.
“I know a way out of here,” said Blue Moon. “But you have to follow me. We have to move fast. The fire’s burning the whole camp.”
And she dashed off, limping, without waiting for their response.
The four glanced at one another, but there seemed to be no alternative. Blue Moon was unaware of the need to find and rescue the children’s parents.
“What are you waiting for!” Blue Moon cried out, looking back at them, then hurrying on.
“But we have to . . . !” Sharlotta was beginning to call out to Blue Moon when there was a hollow whoomp! The four looked behind them to see the shed collapse in a fiery ball.
They instinctively dashed after the Korgan girl as she ran down a row of burning tents toward an iron tower they could make out in the distance.
Korgans roamed about, dazed and frightened; too absorbed in fighting an arm of the fire thrusting deep into the camp and destroying a home tent or some part of the Korgan military machine, or just trying to escape, to even notice the fleeing children.
The children passed the charred remains of tents and shacks, overturned carts and trucks, even something that looked like a tank, gutted from the fire and with its gun askew, looking surprised.
Lying abandoned along the roads were dead draft animals – an armadillo-like creature the size of an SUV (Petey thought), and the flattened hippopotamus-like creature with the howitzer on its back, which they had seen before, and a magnificent-looking beast, a sort of camelion, part camel, part lion, probably used for display by generals and kings in parades.
There were swarms of rat-like creatures with two heads, dashing in mobs from commissaries and food depots where they had lived in relative safety, and the children stopped briefly, clinging to each other (except for Blue Moon, who stayed ahead and watched them with impatience) to let them pass, the rats squealing frantically. Every so often, in the distance there was the sound of a massive explosion as another ammunition or fuel dump blew up.
Petey was a little frightened by what his little match had made happen. Though it was helping them escape a fate worse than burning, he promised himself he would never, ever, play with matches, not ever again, no sir, no ma’am, if he ever got out this alive, that is. Not ever! Cross his heart and hope to die if he ever says a lie! Well, ever says a lie again.
Blue Moon pointed toward the iron tower, which they could see through breaks in the blowing smoke.
“I know a way out near there!” she shouted.
“But without our parents we not leave!” Sharlotta finally got out. She had been waiting to say this until she was sure they had an escape route.
“Your parents?” Blue Moon asked in astonishment. “But where are they?”
“They be behind a wall in the trash dump,” Sharlotta’s voice seemed to dip, remorsefully. “Where the fire start.” Then she continued, more assertively, “You remember! With your brother you be there, shouting at me two hours ago! We might be then again captured! Did you see what they do to me father?!”
“He’s not my brother!” Blue Moon said, petulantly. Her tone was immediately apologetic. “I’m sorry we nearly got you captured, that was before I knew it was Orgun Ramora who was after you.” She paused, her eyes veiled with anger. “I would do anything anything to stop him.”
“But we must save me parents,” Sharlotta insisted.
Blue Moon considered for a moment.
“All right, there’s no time to argue,” she said. “I take the others to the tower, and we can all meet there. You have to be careful, because it’s at the edge of the military parade ground, and there are likely to still be lots of soldiers around there. The trash dump is over there.” She gestured toward the east, where a dauntingly high wall of flames loomed, belching smoke across the afternoon sun. “They may not even be alive.”
“Not say that!” Sharlotta shouted.
“I’ll go with you,” Petey said suddenly.
The two girls looked at him, as though only now realizing he was standing there, right next to them.
“Okay,” Sharlotta said.
She gave Blue Moon a doubtful look before kneeling down to Beely and little Johja, who, their faces smeared with a paste of mud and ashes, stared gravely at her.
“I go to get Mummy and Deddy and bring them back here, so you must to go with . . .” She looked up at the girl. “I not know your name. I think of you,” she said, ingenuously, “as Blue Moon.”
Blue Moon looked at Sharlotta a little shyly, she thought.
“My name is Miua. But you can call me Blue Moon if you want.”
“All right.” And Sharlotta turned back to her brother and sister. “Follow Miua . . . Blue Moon . . . to that tower,” pointing toward it, “and to meet you there I bring Mummy and Deddy.”
“Promise you?” demanded Beely, looking at Blue Moon with a deep frown and a suspicious stare.
“Promise I,” Sharlotta said solemnly, crossing her heart in the supreme gesture of honor, more powerful in the nation of childhood than a hand on a Bible in adulthood’s court.
Little Johja put her fingers into her mouth dubiously, but seemed to know there wasn’t much she could do: she had tried bawling once, but it had had no appreciable effect. So maybe silent compliance would make Mummy reappear.
Sharlotta hugged each of them. She might not find their parents, they might be dead, she might not see her siblings again. Fire, she knew, was soulless as the wind, ruthless as a cornered animal, unforgiving as an offended god. She forced her mind to focus on finding her parents and bringing them to the tower and escaping with them all from the camp: nothing else mattered, nothing else existed. Anything after that was a blank.
“Good be. What Auntie Blue Moon say, do.”
“She not my auntie!” protested Beely.
“Argue not! Now go.”
Blue Moon awkwardly took the little ones by the hand (something she had never done before; her hands were more used to being used as fists) and, when the result was not an instant explosion or a lighting bolt from the sky, the three gave each other abashed looks.
“We be going,” said Sharlotta.
“Good luck,” said Blue Moon, in her froggiest voice.
And Sharlotta and Petey started running toward the east; the girl looked back only once, to see Blue Moon, with her little limp, carefully leading Beely and little Johja, who was looking back resignedly at her older sister, toward the skeletal silhouette of the tower.
Chapter 15. The Spell
The two ran straight ahead, then around what looked to Petey like a collapsed clam bar surrounded by shattered oyster shells, then zig-zagged through a series of little baby fires, then all the way around a great burning army barracks, all the time slipping like a thread through the last fearful remnants of Korgans still in that part of the encampment, many wandering aimlessly as if in shock: a young Korgan woman stumbled by, crying out the names of her lost children; an old Korgan man with a mustache hobbled on a cane across their path, trying to decide what direction was safe, tears of bewilderment streaming down his face; a young soldier stalked past in an awkward marching step, clutching his weapon as though it would have any effect against an enemy as ruthless, cunning and pitiless as fire.
Sharlotta felt twinges of pity for the Korgans as she and Petey ran past them. Yes, they had long been her enemies, and had done her people much harm, and they would kill her if they knew who she was, but, after all, they were subject, just as she was, to suffering and joy; they were vulnerable, living creatures – vulnerable (she suddenly realized) because they lived.
But she had no time to consider this just now, so she tucked the thought away in the back of her mind, to brood over once she and her family were safe.
At one point she and Petey met a fork between two lanes; the one on the right narrow and twisting, the one on the left straight and broad. A public clock stood above the fork, still functioning amidst the mayhem. Petey looked up at the clock (he had always been fascinated by clocks of all kinds): its curious face had four hands and was divided into 22 units, rather than the 12 he was used to. Petey peered wonderingly at it, and finally figured out what time it was: 15:73. Which was certainly an odd time for a clock to read.
“Come!” Sharlotta said impatiently. “We no can wait here!”
“But which way should we go?” asked Petey, gaping indecisively between the two paths.
Sharlotta stared at the paths for a moment, then up at the clock, then, despairingly, made a decision and led the way left.
But after a hundred feet of smooth broad lane, it suddenly turned into a warren of dead-ends they were lost in for long minutes before they finally clambered out at the edge of the trash dump. It was barely recognizable, most of it burnt out, charred black and still smoking.
A heavy silence lay across it like a sleeping animal.
Twenty feet away from them, they saw the collapsed wall where they had left Sharlotta’s parents.
The children stopped.
Petey was the first to move. He crept up to the wall and slowly peered around it. He glanced back at Sharlotta with a frightened look in his eyes.
“No!” Sharlotta cried out, running up.
There, huddled up at the base of the wall were two bodies, miraculously untouched by the flames. Sharlotta’s mother lay on top of her father, as though sheltering him from the smoke and fire.
“No!” Sharlotta cried again, kneeling by them, then throwing herself over them. She buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. “She still warm!” She felt for her mother’s pulse, then the pulse of her father, whose eyes were still open, staring up toward the green sky. “They still alive ago few minutes. They just died! They just died!” the young girl yelled hysterically.
“If only we had taken the other path, we might have gotten here before . . . !”
She let out a wail of despair.
Suddenly she stopped. Petey stood near her, staring at her in a kind of reverence at the intensity of her grief. He felt helpless, wanting to help and not knowing how.
She looked up at him. The girl’s tear-stained face held a question in it. And in the question was a hope.
“You see time on the clock?” she asked, in a trembling voice.
“Yes,” said Petey. “It said 15:73.”
“And you see seconds?”
“No.”
“You can guess?” Her face was pleading.
“Um – how about 15:73 – um – 28?”
“You think you guess how far from here the clock is exactly? I mean, exactly?”
“No,” said Petey, “not exactly.”
“You might guess?” she asked, even more desperately.
Petey was at a loss, then said the first thing that came to mind.
“A hundred sixty-seven feet and three-and-a-half inches!”
“What are ‘feet’ and ‘inches’?” Sharlotta asked.
Petey gaped at her. How was he going to explain that?
“Never mind!” she said, muttering to herself afterward, “Maybe it work.” She turned back to Petey. “And direction exact?”
Exact this, exact that! Is the girl crazy? Petey thought, irrelevantly. Well, all girls are crazy.
He looked behind him with a shrug, in the direction they had come from, and saw the iron tower in the distance. It was as good a guess as any.
“There!” he said, pointing.
“And what you thinking at that moment exact?”
“I was thinking,” Petey said, bewilderedly, “what a strange time the clock read . . .”
“Okay,” said Sharlotta. There was a tone, half of hope, half of despair, in her voice. “Now, that thought think right now.”
She grabbed Petey by the hand, closed her eyes, seemed to think hard, then muttered a long string of words under her breath, opened her eyes again, pointed toward the tower, and shouted, “Shantih otherwise there!”
And a moment later, Sharlotta and Petey were back at the fork between the two lanes, and the clock face above them read 15:73, and the second hand was just passing 28.
“How did you do that?” cried Petey.
“No time! Quick!” And Sharlotta dashed off into the twisting paths to the right, with Petey right behind her.
The paths immediately turned into a labyrinth, and Sharlotta was for a moment certain this had been a mistake, when without warning the maze opened out into a small, shadowy space, and Sharlotta, to her amazement, saw she was standing behind the far end of the collapsed wall: her parents lay, not a dozen feet away from her, in a faint on the ground.
The children ran up to them, Sharlotta grappling her mother and pulling her off her father, and her father started to cough uncontrollably. Sharlotta violently shook her mother, whose head wobbled groggily.
“Mummy!” Sharlotta shouted. “Mummy!”
Her mother moaned, her eyes flickering open. “Sharlotta?”
“You suffocating each other! Just in time we get here. You . . . die! You die!” Sharlotta began crying hysterically.
“Sharlotta, sweetheart. I here, not dead, I . . . be fine . . .”
But all Sharlotta could say was “You die, you die!” as she wept in her mother’s arms. Her mother embraced her, kissing her on the head.
“But where be your father?” her mother asked.
The father had stopped coughing and pulled himself up against the wall.
“All right I be, love,” he said. “Sharlotta, darling, you all right be?”
But Sharlotta could not stop crying.
Crying (Petey suddenly realized) with joy.
Performance Art from Mark Blickley
Mark Blickley grew up within walking distance of the Bronx Zoo. He is a proud member of the Dramatists Guild and PEN American Center and recipient of a MacArthur Foundation Scholarship Award for Drama. His latest book is the text-based art collaboration with fine arts photographer Amy Bassin, Dream Streams.
Robert Funaro is a New York-based actor best known for his work as a regular in The Sopranos where he created the role of Eugene Pontecorvo. Recent credits include The Irishman directed by Martin Scorsese and a recurring role as Lt. Bricker on the hit Showtime series Ray Donovan. Film credits include American Gangster directed by Ridley Scott and Not Fade Away directed by David Chase
Joe John Battista has been involved in over 100 plays and musicals as an actor, musician, songwriter, and director. As a professional photographer, he covered the United States Wheel Chair Team at the Special Olympics in Korea. For six years he was Artistic Director at New York City’s 13th Street Repertory Theater. Since the recent closing of that historic theater, Joe has assumed leadership of the 13th Street Repertory Company.
Poetry from Charlie Robert
THE BOMBING OF THE BERLIN ZOO A SUITE IN EIGHT PARTS PRELUDE 1948 Lion tails cartwheel through the smoke. Landing softly on the Screaming Platz. Zebras. Black White. Red. The earth vomits its crust and Yes. There are secrets to be kept so open wide. Such Beauty. Eyes clouded glass like watered milk. When it was over the sky wiped its chin. Everyone Loves The Zoo A Poem by Mila Roth Survivor and Witness of The Bombing of the Berlin Zoo BERLIN ZOOLOGISCHER GARTEN November 22, 1943 Father Ernst Mueller Mitte Borough, Berlin Sunday Morning The 22nd ********** See them kneeling. Kneeling before The Altar. Kneeling like those they have shot. They take their Christ on crackers. Their Wehrmacht lips opening as one and I can see Hell in their mouths. Bless you my Child. I say. Let us Prey. Joram Fuhrmann A Jewish Boy of Nine The Tiergarten Sunday Afternoon *************** Halten. Don’t move. They will not see you. You will not see them. Slapping and screaming. Lightning and Skulls. Mama. Papa. We will love you forever the Zoo Joram the Zoo. Run run soil your pants. The sky is full of veins. Rank with animal fear. Joram falls to his knees and cries. Cries for the life he knew. God delivered the Torah. And went back to a world of sleep. Mila Roth and Anna Berg Animal Attendants Berlin Zoologischer Garten Sunday Afternoon *************** Hunger. The Great Beast. Meat. Only squirrels. Mila: “Adept with the stone we have killed them all!” Anna: “No. They have gone to the East. They will return when it is over.” Cameroon Male Black Leopard Cage 159 Berlin Zoologischer Garten Sunday Afternoon *************** The concrete is cold. Unyielding. Gone the touch of earth. Propelling him across the Savanna. He had killed at will. Carcasses. Mapping his journey of pain. Thirty steps to the left. I am Iron. Thirty steps to the right. I am Death. I will break free. I will kill everything in my path. Father Ernst Mueller The Blessing of the Animals Sunday Evening ************* All the pets have been eaten. Fat Goering. Full of Spaniel. Only the Zoo makes sense. Holy Water for Hippos. Wafers for Wolves. Praise God from Whom all Blessings Flow. A Droning of Bees. High in the Sky. Praise Him all Creatures Here Below. Flesh. Grays and Reds. Claws. Hooves and Heads. Joram Fuhrmann Sunday Evening ************* Shock. Screaming Metal. Earth Rock Iron Wood. Joram. You have blood in your ears. Your legs. Bone and gristle. Something is wrong. Deep in the chest. Close your sweet eyes. It’s just a brief rest. I shall go to the East and will return. When it is over. Mila Roth and Anna Berg Sunday Evening ************* Shock. Screaming metal. A troop of monkeys fall shredded. The bombs no interest in Who. Anna staggers to the nearest cage. Flames. Coils of smoke. Feeling her way she opens the gate. And now it’s Too Late. Now it’s Too Late. Cameroon. Leaping to freedom. Pausing to rip out her throat. Such Beauty. Eyes. Clouded glass. Like watered milk. The Living and the Dead ******************** Shock. Screaming metal. The earth buckles. Vomiting her crust white hot. A cage blows open sucking Mila inside. A pair of dead Zebras. Breaking her fall. Black White. Red. The ground is littered with animal dead. Mila. Peering through the bars. One of the bodies is moving. She sees the Collar white as his face and she cries. Pray for us Father. Now and at the Hour of our Death. The Priest lifts his head. His eyes are huge and see nothing. The Jackals are first. Blue meat in their jaws. Mila. Hearing the tearing of flesh. Knowing it’s part of the deal. The Priest at the end of the meal. Everyone loves the Zoo. That will never change.
Poetry from Raquel Silberman
Post Calamity By Raquel Silberman What lurks behind the spine of disaster? stiff standing behind a vertebrae tree blinks in the dark of it’s shadows, apparitions of its grief when disaster walks away watch the darkness shrink. glimpses of bone in a flock of silk flip a penny and watch it sink when koi swims by, it feasts becoming just another shiny scale plotting by my feet A mess to clean. drapes strewn across power line sputtered with forgetful ink dense is the mind by virtue of limit What is disaster if not a moment to think
Story from Robert Thomas
When She’s Gone When she’s gone; No more endearing smile to greet my return or laugh at wry and corny puns. No caress of the neck or tender rub of the arm. An absence of affection even in inconsequential moments. When she’s gone; A silence in place of wistful songs of love. No more care in moments of need. An absence of knowing she will be there, always, but then not there. When she’s gone; A longing for words that admonished when things went wrong, and yet its demand required. A hole of improvement to be filled, but left undone. When she’s gone; No pride in watching her dance, a beautiful Golden Follies Bergere, feathers o’er her smiling face. When she’s gone; No reassuring clack of her loom in distant room. The joy of accomplishment left behind, as costumes hang lifeless, and woven towels and scarves lay hidden in drawers, no longer given. When she’s gone; No feeling of wanting, of sexual yearn. A reassurance of manhood, as this figure waned. Her body still haunting after years of toil and age. When she’s gone; A lack of anticipation for things to come. No crazy impulses to thrill the hour. A day at the ocean, now only nostalgic, as waves wash over the the memories of the water sign that was her. When she’s gone; A hush reigns where voices rang out in congenial times. Her gregariousness no longer dampening my loneliness. She was best for me in many ways. Now I am left once again on my own, to muse and remember, for she is gone
Poetry from Mark Young
Bricolage We add some element; & what we put together from what- ever is conveniently at hand lingers, some- times lasts. telemetry science ≠ silence : ephemeral ≠ femoral : dispute ≠ despite : intuition ≠ retribution : precursor ≠ intercourse : sigh ≠ scythe : ordain ≠ ordinary : trope ≠ tranquility : roadkill ≠ homecoming : intend ≠ intense : epiphany ≠ litany : behind ≠ remind : literal ≠ literary : kind ≠ consign : sure ≠ waterfront : behavior ≠ asteroid. A fitted petulance Exponential time decay constants are truly under- stood only by a mere handful of multimedia puppet show performers. Mercury, when occluded Add a new page. Edit the panel. Sign up to receive special offers. Just the motivation I need to shorten the story. What's with the winged sandals, dude? One / less color / in the day The bird with the red around its eye eats the red bird's eye chillies off the bush then flies away, doubly diminishing the amount of color in the day. Street seen The lawyers, on their way back to Court after lunch at a nearby pub, are all dressed like undertakers. What hope then of a not guilty verdict?