No, not left or loosed into the possibilities of weeping, but that it is a recorded gesture we can talk about. We are never alone anymore nor need we fear being caught up in the accident of sorrow. I speak anyway, and that's a trust perfect burden. Dear Sir or Madam, that letter you forgot to send me that you hand it to me blushing, hoping I'll read it elsewhere. Death is a Bitch's Brew, goes around or under us cuts our legs out as we go unheeding to the Bijou or down the street for a friendly harmless drink.
Locks also protect against nothing.
They're dead and gone beyond all care and feeling. Once upon a time there was a war and that was painful. Even as I say these things the Moon gets Blue. I'm getting sentimental over you. Call me your father.