[So swallow my tongue. And be pseudo-sophisticated] Today I regurgitated and remembered of you. I disgorged what was inside of me left from you and remembered, it’s still your fault. But don’t worry. I still blame you. You omitted bequeathing the ineffectual of living. There’s no point if death isn’t there. Far from being bereavement, you’re just ineluctable. Ineptly elegant. And otiose. A photograph is worth a thousand words, but your face tells a thousand paradoxes. You’re not half the paragon you lie to be. Talk is cheap, you can not be valorous if your filth is cheap. Just like the stain-glass windows in church. Your talk is cheap.