He's very sad. He doesn't watch cartoons anymore. Watching him makes this burning ache, right on the chest. Whenever something, well this has never happened before, and especially-

One supposes that, because of the nature of things, digressions are a most common occurrence. Disruptions of daily rituals, habits to be more precise. Not to mention all the spontaniety.

It leaves one time for reflection.

Before the --bad thing happened to Buffy's mom, the others were either overly amused (at somebody's expense) or disgusted by the healthy exercising of sugar and bodies and all things nummy.

Jealousy has been ruled out, because "sharing" about the goodness just tipped the scale over completely to the disgusted end. Which makes no sense.

So, research.

Libido: the desire to live. That is the definition. It's only because the media, primarily the private-sector interests of the hungry and flesh-touting entertainment industry, has bent it so badly that of the definition nothing comes out but the sex hype. At least, outside of books.

Greece is a dim memory. Even so, one can still recall that there was a lot of libido going on.

I think there was sun. Yes.

Wishes. Too many to count. And that's saying a lot. Let's see, memorable ones. Almost all of them. Always points for originality. So many stories to tell.

In the Victorian Era, there was once a young woman. A shipbuilder’s daughter, whose widowed father was remarkably endowed with enough discernment to acknowledge the astute talents and skills of his only child, such that his affection and respect for her equaled that sentiment of his peers for their eldest sons. The young woman took a goodly hand in the family matters of finance.

For one reason or another the holdings of the family enterprise were plunged into quick danger; and it was most unfortunate that simultaneous to this grave turn of events, the young woman’s father suddenly took ill. A well-dressed, unknown stranger professing honorable intentions entered the scene; upon visiting the offices of the shipbuilding company, he offered his services and resources on the promise to the shipbuilder that the stranger, in turn, might own stock of the company as a partner of sorts. Here, predictability of the stranger’s true intentions leaves one in no state of shock.

In the course of months, the stranger had wormed his way into the shipbuilder’s utmost confidence; as a frequent guest at their home, he nevertheless faced the palpable distrust and suspicion of the young woman. Exactly nine months after their initial meeting, the shipbuilder took ill again. Filled with resolve that his daughter might live a happy and contented life, knowing "truest love" as he had known with her mother, he asked on his deathbed that she marry the stranger, and she said yes.

Her reserve melting in lieu of his ardent desires, and her own thoughts of her departed father thus gave way to the path of least resistance; they were married.

It was of great surprise to her to find that as a newly-made bride, her husband expected her to partake no more in the man’s world of finances. The offices she’d known and managed so well now became a world with doors hinged closed. According to the will, the husband was sole proprietor of said offices, etcetera, etcetera.

It was an even greater shock to learn from her husband that her father’s death had been foreseeable, and conclusively inescapable. Her father had been poisoned. By her pond scum husband.

But the greatest shock of all was to find that she loved him. A tiny spark, though no match had been struck, had somehow ... crept- in, wriggled its way into the crevices reserved solely for the wonderful old man that had been her father. She *loved* him. Which made the pain of betrayal all the more acute.

A very resourceful young woman, she refused adamantly -well, to herself and in her thoughts- to become the passive, breeding cow her beloved would have her be. She realized that the marriage altar had been built by lies when she'd sealed the bargain with the man her father had chosen and accepted.

Breaking a deal not made in good faith could not be reprehensible. And she had fulfilled her blood-oath promise.

A different altar was built, to call upon the forces of the powerful Anyanka, Patroness of the Righteous. Judgment and Vengeance to the callous, murdering brute whose mistress had been the coin.

There would be no honeymoon.

She smiled at the fish, medium sized and strange, as it flopped miserably on the banks of the Thames. Fish mouth opening, closing, gills expanding, tail and body flapping in a whiplash dance of hurt and terror. It was pretty entertaining, actually. And the young woman whose newly-made groom had run off with a load of legal-tender notes smiled at the sad, dead fish while a tear crept low and silent on her cheek.

In modern times, especially of late, it seems a decline in the belief of the mystical hasn't really hurt business that much. Modern women are more apt to take things into their own hands nowadays, it's true. But for the not faint of heart, who opt for the wish and the hands-on fun, it makes for really interesting combinations.

The fish, for example. Flame-broiled. Or there's a kind of sushi where upon exerting pressure on a few nerves so that only the tip of the tail swishes ever so slightly, one really can taste and get the freshest slice available. A very expensive delicacy in many hot restaurants.

All this done in the name of vengeance, love unrequited,undeserved and scorned. So many ways, so many faces, stories and methods. Oh, various pustules, boils and the like. A mall gets fed up gettin' slapped around every time the bootlegged gin never gets to its intended destination. Snap, The Boss toins into a skoit, see, helpless gorgeous young thing. One Sicilian lady literally turned her nefarious husband's appendage into a limp noodle.

It's a scene played many, many times through the ages, on countless stages. Hence the forthcoming supply to the entreaties and pleas. A thousand years answering the call of demand.

I mote it be.

Demotions are painful in the sense that because one has moved on beyond the sphere of experience from that which could only be called "before" it is thus impossible to regain that sense of tunnel vision, when one has gotten quite well-acquainted, and comfortable with being privy to the panoramic wide screen.

All the more so if the experience goes beyond the 3-D to step into a multiplicity of dimensions, all in need of the avenging revenger.

A column of white marble, some rocks, just the faintest smell of...something, and sun. There was sun. Or perhaps it was sandstone. And the smell could have been olives. Or fish. Rocks are a certainty.

There was sun.

To be the instrument, then to be poke-able. It does not follow a sequential order of progress. It’s not right. The bet has not panned out. The bubble has burst. The fish has jumped- well, been hurled, really, -out of the pan and into the fire, a scorchy, burning conflagration of...humanity. And one is left quite clueless.

This goes without saying, the lack of clue, but to speak uninterrupted for a day, or a week, or a year would still not even touch *this*-
Or rather, perhaps there are no words enough for the touch, and the feel, inside and out.

Progeny. Joyce has progeny. Two. To carry her...
memory. Essence.
That which is good, and remains.

Dust.

There’s more to this than dust.