"But ah'm not afraid of dyin'. Cause I know that when I get to heaven there are gonna be these wonderful trees, and ah'm gonna climb them. But you know what? Instead of leaves and flowers, those trees are gonna have fried eggs, and delicious Virginia ham, and big heaping bowls of biscuits and sausage gravy. And one day, Sammy, you're gonna meet me there, and we're gonna climb those breakfast trees together, and it's gonna be delicious and we're gonna be happy until the end of time."



Faithful as they came, they went. It's never enough time. Suddenly it's quiet, and empty, and the gravity starts to catch up, and rips the tears out of your reluctant ducts once more, for old time's sake. You thought you'd evolved past that, but there they are. Not so much a flow as a slow drip, but stupid nonetheless. You've been unable to shake that eclectic mix of people for whom the word "friend" does no justice over the last week, and in the space of a morning they're mostly scattered to the wind again. There were words you forgot to say, because there were so many that needed saying, and the one person you really wanted (needed) to see didn't make eye contact or speak to you in two whole days, and you returned the favor, knowing you both deserved it, devastated by the realization it would probably always be that way, and angry you're both such stubborn-ass knuckleheads.
But it was all good, until that last bit. You typed a lengthy paragraph, attempting to outline events of the past week or so, but words failed, and you scrapped it, because you're in a crappy mood. Then you wondered what got you on this second-person narrative, and began to annoy yourself. You wished everyone a brilliant 2005, and promised them you'd go cheer up, or get drunk trying.