The boy-child continues to cry. He continues to ache. He crawls up in my lap and wilts.
The girl-child is in some other dimension. It's just not real to her.
The WAW puts on a brave front, then retreats upstairs to the master bed to cry or Facebook 'n' cry or e-mail 'n' cry. And I, N.U.T.S.-bearing Vessel of Manly Assurance, knock gently, enter, wrap my arms around her, and let her cry. "I'm a piece of sh*t; I'm a piece of sh*t; I'm a piece of sh*t."
No, you're just someone who's hurting; who doesn't know what to do; who doesn't know which way is up.
"How can you say these things? I s*ck. I'm trash. I'm so empty inside. I'm dead."
SP's Thought Balloon: Yeah, we're both dead.
SP's Voice Balloon: One step at a time. Okay?
"I'm falling. I'm falling."
You won't fall too far. You're not working without a net. {Wipes away the tears, takes her face in his hand, looks into her eyes}: You're not alone. Now clean up and go be good for those kids.
And then Smiley's Person retreats to the Cave of Manitude, kills an oil can of Foster's Lager, chews an Ambien, and awaits Phlegyas to bring his boat across the River Styx, to drift into another night's flitting, sleep-like state.
T.S. Eliot and me, homez. We were not Prince Hamlet, nor were meant to be. To sleep -- but not to dream; ay, there's the rub, if in that sleep of death no dreams at all may come --
