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Don't you smirk. I don't care how funny it seems. You're always one symptom away from that cancerous lethargy, and you know it.
So, you say it's cold. Oh yes, bitter cold, the sort that gets you to forget that there is a sun in the sky, or that warmth is not but a teasing dream.
Indeed, that cousin of yours, she's a waste, now. All that money, and all her moaning and self-importance. Didn't you have a grand time with your smug dismissal, now? Admit it, it was good to be superior, like you always are.
And while we're admitting things, go right ahead, you know it's there. It was riding shotgun with you all night long, that big, fat big bad. Snarling with glee, even. You don't like her. That wheedling voice and the non-stop updates about how everyone she knows is up to no good, no good at all and they're all going to their just, fiery comeuppance. That miniscule whimper pushing its way around her purposeful, showy tokes on her nebulizer. She's dying, and she's goddamned annoying. There, you said it. Feel better? Aha! Heard it here first, there's a dying woman you don't like. Ring the bells, shout down the mountain.
Then on the way home, with the bitter night and the smirking smugness of your blithering cousin and that shallow near-corpse as your indulgent companion, you much as said it, didn't you? Sucks to be you! Hardy-hardy, so damned amuuuuuusing, you can be. Even now you sound like a poor man's Alanis, my girl my girl.
Now what?
Ah, all I can say, to you, your blood, your death, is that I have no prayer to offer. To Kenya, I have only sorrow. For those that I love who are in danger, for the children I wish were safe, I do not pray. I can only believe. Look at your photo, the house that you drew, the letters that you have written, and I can hope that you are well.
Alfayo, Gail, Addie, Mrs. & Mr. Agessa, Tara, Daniel, Charles, and all the Vihiga province. I hope that you all are safe, and fear that you are not. I am so sorry.
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Munin
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Ah, a place to put intimate details about my inner workings where anyone can read them, and most likely won't.
Let's get organized. Bits of fiction will be under Epic, verse under Edda, other diatribe will be found under Meandering Mores. Chronological labels will be added as needed.
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