"...where angels fear to tread."
"What?"
"...nothing."
Fishing after your thoughts, and this will be my - third? Tenth? Ten-thousandth cast gone astray? Are you simply not there to catch my eye, Jon? Are the waters still because they're deep or because you moved out?
I conjure my most tempting morsels, conceptually speaking, and I love to brag but I love to shame myself too. I know my own merits, and they're my burdens, one of them being that gift you cursed me for, the one you're cursing now if there's so much as an echo of what you were still rattling around in that silent skull somewhere. I know I'm saying things you couldn't resist if you were still human.
But if you were, the sand sneaking into your shoes would bother you.
If you were, you'd sweat like I am in this heat. My stare at least should be burning your cheeks.
What a grotesque thing you've become, old friend. A creature apart, a misguided gift, an abortion. What a specimen is a saint among men!
