Pretty grim subject matter, really... 'RED MISTY-EYED' Gentle post-meridiem, All smooth and sunlit. Yet turbulent beneath: Thunderbolts aplenty; Cyclones and sourness. "They attempted to end it all." How does it sound? Dramatic? Operatic? Histrionic? In my head, the voice of The obsequious butler: "Has Sir considered apathy instead?" Sir has, indeed: Just before he rejected it. Does it matter how well I know them? Brother, sister, or stranger: The fact that they tried Is bad enough. Once is too many times. I look to myself, Having little else useful to do: Not a heart bleeding, But blood-red with rage At the shitty way of things. Bring out Brünnhilde To give us a big tune: Let the trumpets touch the sky; Self-righteous or not, Voices need to be heard. Is it haughty indignation? Or something entirely valid? Many questions. Few answers. If any. So should I punch the pillow? Or lay my head on it? I'd like some good sleep. It used to be a hobby, Now it's the Holy fucking Grail.