I observed the little things: the swaying of scarves, the king
of hearts' clever suicide attempt, a slowly decaying corpse
sprinkled with shotgun shells and that "alive" look gleaming in
its eyes. The distinction between truth and tale exists in the
most crucial of times and explodes like a wine cork getting
shot into the night, disappearing under stars and blood while
exaggerated through war stories and battle wounds. In
retrospect, we dwell on childhood memories while a rain of
white lies and battle cries create the stage. The last name is
embarrassment preceded closely by reliable. The mind
seems to outrun the body and the closeness between me and
you is ironically the same as the distant from New York to
Duxbury. Shake it up.