The blue tiled bottom of a fountain at a centuries old California mission
Tonight there will be blood and passion and death.

There are endless days and meaningless lengths behind us but with a lifetime of melodies set to expire at the beginning of the new century can I just tell you that you have never once been anything but exactly what I dreamed of? Nonsense, I know, but when there is light and no end in sight there is finally opportunity and the ability to see beyond my own insecurities and delay the unknown indefinitely with surprises and smiles that last from sunrise to sunset, chasing this staid existence into a veritable parade of odd and wonderful moments where your hand is all I need and the night is all we have. Let the rest rest.

Tonight there will be blood and passion and death.

Numbers float on nothing but their own thoughts and inability to become anything other than what they are. These strings sound nice, don’t they? Remember that time Lilly came to us and we all drove off that cliff? What a day. Beyond measure or time or inexactitude.

Cory, go to the phone and give her a call. She’s waiting. We’re all waiting. There’s nothing left to do but hug it out or look forward to 100 years of silence. I’m waiting for you to die, you know. Those were nice flowers you brought. I can still smell them when the southwestern sun shines through the stained slats and reminds me why I became a priest after all.

My dear, my dear sweet love. You are everything a man could wish for. The type of wishes that a man hides deep within, like a pen that just ran out of ink.

I love you I love you I love you.

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