Your static-ed words to me written back to you: “Castles and I don’t jive”. This is going to unwork a singular effort on my part when it comes to digesting the particles of kindness that spin around you and me. I want you to shut your portcullis and tell you that “my crenellations avert crisis so don’t approach admonishment or I’ll find a way to bring your own love down around your head”. Yes that’s right, right over your eyes. Take a number and I’ll offer you the most baroque super-servience this side of Rococo. I’ll be quite decadently Machiavellian and invite all of the reds and whites to the party and beat that ventricular ornamentation until it’s sharded through and uncomfortably eyeballed and squirming. I know, I’ve already gifted you the image of glassness storming your visionary fortress, and you don’t even like castles. Jive? Who uses that word? Didn’t you ask for silica traversions through the aqueous humor? If not, your mistake. Didn’t you want me to cook dinner? If not, I can make it evaporate. Except for my hands, the final constituent. That is an ingredient worth saving not for expense or usefulness but for nostalgia’s sake. I’m sorry I’m always saking things. It’s easier than baking things or making things but just a little bit harder than taking things, at which I am more than accomplished. Someone should give me mettle. You’re not laughing. Are you? I’m sick of trying to feel the faultline on your face…aren’t you ever urged to excuse the seismic scale of your smile? Powerful to a fault. Was that redundant? Stupid also. If you ever wanted to know what comes after the phone call ends, I am telling you now. I pace, prattle, tattle on myself and gather blather like so many seashells, and no; one hundred of them do not equal a sand dollar. I’m shoveling through dinner since it will only sit and stuff me with an alternate timeline and unmade memories of diagrams, points along the circumference of a circle, diameters. Don’t ask us how we got here, there’s more substance in the leaving…why did we abandon the turrets, why did we patch up our murder holes?