Let's not be friends. Let's not be pretends. I sense a history of heart and hope, of once genuine belief and faith. These remembrances, all sentimental blathers, are bad echoes of half-lived lives. Everyone rewriting their own story. Every one of us trying to redraft and reframe into something more noble. Vertical but horizontal, trying but not really getting there. This is the way we age. Slowly weighted by the everyday. Walked by. Looked past. Underplayed and ignorable. Balancing a leg to the other, shifting weight, trying and twisting, to see what may work and what may not. All your slow blinks and orchestrated sighs won't make a difference. But this fiction fable will have to wait, because I'm about to breathe some recycled air, freshly imported from Canada. Let them off, disembark their big city fantasies for a few days. Get them lucky for an afternoon, show them their devil, uncork tomorrow's regret. We've got souls to harvest next season, make them a worthy fruit.