The Barrier of One Solid Night.

Without agreement, or even knowledge, 

as to what constitutes a 'decent interval', 

it falls to your local person to scrape together 

a few ideas and just decide, if that's a word 

that won't get someone offed at a corner or 

three, just as what it is and who it will be 

when an unknown quantity is shielded and 

breaks the barrier of one solid night.

Inside a spot which sometimes appears to rotate on the ceiling when I've had too much to drink, a name surfaces. The name: Jerlene Krislak. She is my sister. We were separated during a fracas at the airport while our regional opponents' decision making process was coming under discussion at a meeting of six of the seven stake holders we've held at arms' length for the entire period of hostilities. If I've ever locked an innocent person-of-height in a random broom closet, I can be forgiven. It was an understandable weakness. The conflicting emotions were tearing me this way and that. I have soldiered forth with unassailable, if mundane, projections. The total cost is to be hidden. I am duty bound to briefly reveal in an offhand way just who it is who will still be with us when we storm the last redoubt, and post the relevant readout, when whoosh comes to unlock various unsold containers allowing 'the good stuff' to finally breathe.

Outside of our obsession with faces of a certain angular quality, what would those in charge say is our prime fatal flaw when considered in light of a droning Episcopal Monarch's just-in-time pyramid scheme? Is 'one' your answer? Try to answer ever more slowly. It will make 'things' longer, that is to say: extended in (at least) one spatial dimension. The shoes you wore yesterday could possibly become the hat you wear tomorrow. There are no 'ifs' about catching a drift. And no 'ors' or 'buts' for that matter. Does it matter? Please try to think clearly.

 Along with the chain letter addressed to a bald person in the Icelandic capital, there's an insistent metallic banging emanating from a local fraud detection device which we're at our wits' end attempting to install, one backward facing nail at a time. And I do mean DREAMY!

But then a fountain-pen shaped pastry item is offered for our inspection. My vulnerable sensitivities are taken into account and all is 'hunky-dory', or so I think. Until I get the letter, that is. And I don't mean a 'letter' as in a piece of correspondence consisting of one or more pieces of paper covered in text and delivered in an envelope (remember those?) No. I mean a single alphabet letter, not printed on or affixed to any surface, paper or otherwise. No. It's just a single alphabet letter transmitted directly into my mind from an unknown (and possibly unknowable) source. One might ask: 'Well, which letter was it?' Makes sense, right? That's the thing: I don't remember which letter it was. Why? Look, this happened sixteen years, seven months, one week, four days, two hours, five minutes and thirty-five seconds ago as I write this. How am I supposed to remember every aspect of something that happened at that exact moment? If I could do that I'd be some kind of frickin' genius! Geesh! Get lost with the stupid questions already! I'm out of here! 

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