What makes a good human being? By whatever criteria I think I may fall short, I think that I might have flaws as big as butchers knives, or excited shards of glass. Flaws you could herd jello through. Vast, gaping, burning holes. Disastrous deficits of moral character. They say kindness, and certain callous ruthlessness are the two major factors to moral success, and I don't dare disagree one lip quaver, not a single quiver of dissent.

Still, I guess it could be worse. I could be subject to the same wet, fifteen legged terrors you are.

This law and order thing. Half the world's problems would be solved if everybody just minded their own business. On the other hand I do some things, you do some things, she does some things she's not proud of. Ordinary, forgiveable errors in ethical judgement, a simple statistical blip in the celestial wheel of fortune. Deep down you know this is not the plastic you were pressed out of. You were moulded in the charcoal furnace of the sun, and tempered in the freezing ice of asteroids.

Actually, actually, I think if they boiled you down to a residue they would find enough tar to paint the entire sky a vibrant light pitch black. You: I accuse, and me: I accuse, but I bet we'll shake each others hands, one day, when chalkboards clear and chalk dust settles.

Can-I-not, just: bow out: say: ok: you win: it's over, the trophy case is yours, I really don't care any more. In my will I leave you everything: the house, the car, that damn kid the SPCA were always sending us letters about, all yours. Just let me have some place, no place; nowhere, the middle of, my books, a warm stove and the loneliness of empty peace. To be honest if the horizon were a permanent fixture I think I'd rather see you over it. You could, I wish, disappear. Forever. It won't hurt - I swear to God.

God has not yet struck me down with lightning. I remain as yet an atheist.

I always wonder what other people think of me. It's impossible to tell. I mean: really. On a scale of one to ten I wonder if people think I am a mango, a ripe mango or just a two. This gunpowder makes for an extremely dangerous decongestant. Imagine, for a second, if you knew, knew for certain, what people really said or thought about you.

The results, I think, would be devastating.

Honestly, I wouldn't worry about it.