This started out as something else, another journal entry
full of silences, words to capture the unrelenting, this unimaginable falling
down quiet. Then I realized putting this here is sorta fruitless, like
fig trees and pomelos sliding thin branches full of Autumn, destined for mud
and wintry skies, lost in pie plates and conversations so very nearly soon to be forgotten.
If I
write about the exquisite depravity you might think it insufferable, if I write
about the debauchery of pain to ruin your face from ever smiling again, you're certain
to call it the exaggerations of far away malingerers, too busy with your prejudice to right
your wrongs, too busy with your sense of superiority to be willing to acknowledge there is no excuse for a defense comprised of lies and abuse.
You cannot escape punishment yourself with
something less permanent, however awkward, however necessary the slaughter of
the innocent.
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