I don't know you, so this means nothing, but I'll be damned if I don't recognize a pattern, familiar, a Mandelbrot. As I write this, I'm listening to music improvised, stumbling, in a church. As I write this, I'm thinking how angry I got watching him cut up bone-in chicken last night with cooking scissors for thirty-five minutes. Relationships are hard. For six months you shrieked through staged portraits. Here, your face a raging tangerine, there, your hair a spectacular Klimtian rat's nest. Anyone knew who really paid attention. He dissected the chicken 'cos he was anxious, cowed by the raw and natural: quivering fat, chewy bits. Not like us, rising from swamp steam, sucking on musky bones, my soul bellowing at your twin soul from windy hill to windy hill or gable to fierce Victorian gable, furious, torrential, victorious. -for A. and A.