It would be my pleasure to talk in pros, but that's not my way, as everyone knows. He knocked and she popped in, and both of them interrupted our minds and toppled through our memories, digging themselves out of their graves to return to a momentary present. I smiled, you yelled, and those were the determinents of a nights end; things are always brighter when we kiss hello. Goodnight is a bit of a different tale. Envelopes came and letters rushed in, rushing to my brain in little drops of pill-form ink. My score came in and I frowned, then sighed with relief at a feeble three; cheers to the worst writing of my life. I tried to spew my gutts, but found myself without them anyway. Which brings us to this moment in time-- 6 hours to spare before the clock breaks-- but who's counting? Who cares if it's been four hours, three weeks, 11 months... And speaking of numbers, why do 3 and 9 haunt me? I guess the matter is nothing to fret; Nothing to fret... oh that phrase I so often forget. For I cry and I weep and I sigh, not ever really knowing why. Maybe they aren't all my tears after all. I do carry a heavy load, lots of lives in my heart. Maybe the one who cries is Lucy or Rachael or Maverick or Everett or Mendithas or Jack or Peter or Ellie or Jeremy or Trey or Ginger or Vilencia or Quency or Dandy or Talbot or someone I've forgotten, which makes the tearstream stronger. Three weeks and I haven't kept my promise. Maybe I've surrendered to: "I'm not ready yet." That's an even better excuse than "I'm busy." But in the end and as an ending, this all means nothing at all.