The world went dark on July 20.

Fortunate for my family and I, we still had some of our garden left. By the time the supermarket shelves were ransacked and the riots hit, we’d gathered four twenty-gallon buckets of tomatoes, seventy cucumbers, four dozen banana peppers, ten plump bells, and nine watermelons. We wasted no time dragging it all inside; we knew it wouldn’t be long till the riots overflowed from the city and came our way. They’d sweep through, a wall of greed and disorder, and ravage our land.

Phones were down for the few who still had landlines, and cells were inoperable for loss of signal, which meant no 911. (Criminals...were acutely aware of this.) I took plenty issue with the notion of being inevitably robbed without recourse, but in times like these you kinda’ had to suck it up. We were thirty miles from any police station. Smith and Wesson was our only fallback.

This was social anaphylaxis, an allergic recoil from the sting of primitivity. And like anaphylaxis I figured it would eventually subside.

It didn’t.

Scariest were those who depended on technology like a lifeline. We didn’t have news to tell of the suicides. I would’ve been afraid to ask anyway.

A week in and you had stray influencers wandering the streets, lost and despaired, looking like something the cat coughed up.

And I wondered. Had we fallen so far as a species that survival hinged on something as recent as electricity? I kept telling myself how two-hundred years ago there was no such amenity, and the residents endured just fine.

My mind kept circling back to a show I used to watch. Dr. Stone.

A mysterious flash of light leaves humanity petrified, and a handful of humans awaken 3,700 years later to a world devoid of modern means, reminiscent of a Stone Age. Aided by the supergenius Senku, they have to start over from scratch, meaning relearning everything from agriculture to architecture to the reinvention of more luxurious articles like automobiles, phones and cola. I loved that show; I just never thought I’d have to live it. Had I known this was coming I would’ve taken notes. But the extent of my note-taking was when I’d recorded the ingredients for cola on my Pages app. Which was now out of commission. Bruh.

Maybe I don’t really have room to judge the technologically bereaved.

The Stone World residents had it a bit tougher, I’d dare to say. At least we still had standing civilization, skyscrapers, cars. We had battery powered fans; we just lacked a way to charge the batteries.

What ground my gears was knowing all the writing I had logged away on my Pages app. All I knew was, when signals were restored my work better not’ve been lost. I probably had over three-hundred documents.

My anger dissipated a little when imagining the scope of effects brought about. Hospitals would be in trouble. Generators could only get them so far. And what about winter when farming was an impossibility? Hunting would have to suffice, but with the population so high could wildlife really sustain us all? I chose to be hopeful. It was really all I could do.

TV made this look easy.

There was an Amish commune a little ways from our farm. Dad bought wood from them regularly, so we had something of a rapport. Three months in we drove out to see if there was any wood left they could sell us. Winter was coming and our furnace supply was lower than usual. We’d had to start using it early for the cold nights. I met Isaiah out by the barns and he looked nothing like what I’d remembered. He was always so jovial for our wood runs, a man with a countenance of steel. But all the while he was explaining to us, he looked so beat down. He said some outsiders had hit their commune about a month back, and killed a couple of their men. The looters made off with as much as they could carry.

Fear does things to people. Things you can’t really explain. More than just fight or flight, these things hardly ever make sense. Perhaps it’s a narcissistic, impatient, nearsighted drive that fuels it. Why vie for cordial discourse when violence could get you so much further so much faster?

Isaiah told us the names of the dead. A few of them I’d known.

One of them was only a year older than me.

They could only spare a quarter-load of wood, but we were grateful. Isaiah refused money.

Dad gave him a gun and told him to protect his family. Reluctantly, he nodded and took it.

Driving back in our family pickup, I watched the sky. It looked so dreary anymore.

Again my mind circled back to Dr. Stone. Just a few of the petrified had been revived, and even then they managed to find conflict. Enemies were quickly made, and a war eventually followed.

The first thing I heard was the sound of shattering glass. The window at my right shoulder exploded. Dad gunned it but we didn’t make it far. A loud popping noise sent us rolling, ground turning to sky. Next thing I knew, I was in a ditch, about a hundred feet from the truck. I could hardly feel my body, my mouth tasted like copper, and my sight was barely clear enough to make out the faces eclipsing my periphery.

“She alive?” a gruff male voice called.

“Yeah, looks like it,” another replied. “What about the old man?”

“He ain’t moving. Big dent in his head. I’d say he’s a lost cause.”

“I got ’is wallet. He only had about seventy bucks.”

“You think she’s got anything on her?”

“Na. I don’t see no jewelry. And she looks about fifteen, so forget cash...”

“Wanna’ check? I mean, what would it hurt?”

By then, all I could see was black.

I felt myself being rolled over.

“Nothing... Told you.”

“She looks pretty bad, man. You didn’t tell me it would go like this.”

“Well, how could I have known?”

“So what, we just leave her here?”

“You got a better idea? Wanna’ take her to a hospital?” Sarcasm. Even concussed I understood that much.

“What, you feeling guilty now? If you don’t wanna’ leave her then be a man and just put her out of her misery.”

Silence. He’s thinking about it. I don’t know how I can tell, but I can.

“I can’t... I’ve never actually shot someone...”

His voice...he sounds so young.

“Fine. Just leave her. We’re moving out, though. I ain’t sittin’ around nursing some stranger’s kid till dark.”

Footsteps. The grass is rustling. They’re leaving.

One’s staying.

I hear a click, and with a fresh fear I realize he’s made his decision.

“I’m sorry...”

I hear the first fraction of a gunshot.

Then I hear nothing.

#fiction

Greetings fellow readers and writers. It’s been some time since we last updated Prose. Today we’re excited to provide a peek behind the curtains and give you a glimpse of what we’ve been working on. 

Over the years, as we’ve added features and functionality to Prose, the app and its codebase have become increasingly unwieldy. As such, we decided to reimagine and rebuild Prose from the ground up. It’s still the same site you know and love, insofar as a Toyota Camry is just as much a car as a Porsche 911. 

We’ll have more exciting announcements in the weeks to come; but for now we hope you’ll give the new site a test drive and let us know what you think. You will find the next chapter at beta.theprose.com and we encourage you to share your thoughts at info@theprose.com.

Because I could not stop for Death--

He kindly stopped for me--

The carriage held but just ourselves--

And Immortality.

We slowly drove -- he knew no haste

And I had put away

My labor and my leisure too,

For his civility--

We passed the school where children played,

At Recess -- in the Ring--

We passed the fields of Grazing Grain--

We passed the setting sun.

Or rather -- He passes Us--

The Dews drew quivering and chill--

For only Gossamer, my Gown--

My Tippet -- only Tulle--

We paused before a House that seemed

A swelling of the ground--

The roof was scarcely visible--

The Cornice -- in the ground--

Since then -- ’tis centuries -- and yet

Feels shorter than the day

I first surmised the horses’ heads

Were toward Eternity--

---- I had this poem in my school 8th grade. I still could not forget how much I cherished by my teacher’s explanation to such an adorable poem.The inevitability of death in lovely lines. Personified Death as a carrigae and a ride to the neighourhood heading to afterlife. I wish everyone has a recall of past memories or a similar ride to afterlife.

I feel like

I opened a door

And walked through

Without looking

So I didn't notice

It was a door

To nowhere

And now I'm falling

In darkness

With no end in sight

Except

There is pain

So much pain

So it's more

Than just falling

It's also

Being ripped apart

At a cellular level

I'm not sleeping

I'm not eating

I drank last night

Even though

I promised myself

I wouldn't

Not until the end of January

(Plus four days)

But now

I think

I just give up on that

Maybe

It really doesn't help the pain

And is probably

Very unhealthy

Since I'm not eating

And not sleeping

I wish

I hadn't found out

And I could live

In blissful ignorance

With his arms around me

His breath on my neck

And my heart full of love

But,

I don't really

Wish that

Because it wouldn't change

Who he is

And what he's been doing

I feel despair

Honestly

The cessation of hope

And I hate

That I gave

This man

That much power

Over me

But I did

I gave it all up

All my trust

Love

Dignity

Everything

I laid it at his feet

And he used me

As a doormat

As I pick up

The pieces

Of my shattered heart

As I walk away

From the future

I saw with him

I try to remember

The other side of love

The side that doesn't feel like this

I can't.

It is a Friday night, 1982. Southern long-hairs huddle around a fire built of debris stolen from a nearby construction site. Toy Caldwell’s guitar sings through someone’s

boombox into the frigid night air, mixing pleasantly with the smokey odors of burning pinewood and second hand marijuana. There are bursts of laughter, bouts of quiet boredom, and a long night ahead. What to do?

Trouble looms. Testosterone hangs thick as the Marlboro smoke. The talk becomes, “what to steal, where to vandalize, who’s ass to kick?” The youngest voice reveals it's youthful naievite, “I’m cool staying right here.” A pretty girl flashes him a friendly smile from across the bon-fire's twirling flames.

“Who the fuck are you?” The voice belongs to an older neighborhood tough. His features are sharp in the flickering light, his eyes and cheeks hollow.

The youngster stands. He is slender, athletic. “I ain’t nobody.”

“That’s right. You ain’t nobody, so shut up.”

The kid shrugs. “These guys do what you say because they’re scared of you. I ain’t scared, and I won’t shut up.”

The bigger kid grins sadistically. “Well, I guess I’m gonna kick "Nobody’s" ass!”

“Come on then.” The kid is younger, but ready. “But when I take away your tough-guy reputation, what will you have left?” It is a semi-bluff. The youngster had read those exact words earlier in the day, straight out of the cowboy paperback that was tucked down in his Levi’s pocket.

The older kid hesitates, thinking that through. He is confident, but what if he did lose? These kids watching the drama were his only friends. He laughs. “Fuck it, kid. You’re alright.”

The bluff wins. Steve sits down, as do I. As tensions cool the smiling girl crosses over to sit beside me. My night would not be so boring after all.

~

My parents seperated when I was eight. I was already a rebellious adolescent at twelve, but during a summer visit to my father's new house he introduced me to “The Daybreakers” by Louis L’Amour. Knowingly or unknowingly, my father had chosen for me a worthy, supplemental mentor. Through Louis’ novellas I learned life lessons that have carried me to this day. I learned that there is courage to be found in doing right. I learned how to work; how to show up every day, and to give it all I had. Louis taught me that it is not age that makes you a man, nor facial hair, but rather your willingness to accept responsibility. Louis’ characters taught me to appreciate literature, poetry, history, and to respect others, and their ways.

Louis died when I was twenty-two. I cried at the news, just as I would have had it been my father. I wondered what I would do with no new stories, but I needn’t have worried. My lessons were learned, the life habits established. Other, and more challenging writers awaited.

The writer of simple cowboy stories had created his final character... a man he would never meet, but one who tried to live a life that Louis L’Amour would have been proud to write about.

Love is the absence of emptiness.

I look at my hand

Holding nothing

And my heart

Tingles its remembrance

Of your hand

In mine

And I know

This is love

Love is logic's greatest obstacle.

I think of my future

My goals

My dreams

Logic tells me

Altering my path

To be with you

Giving myself over

To your goals

To your dreams

Will curtail my own

But logic can operate in a vaccuum

Love cannot

Love is the most tangible intangible.

I'm not sure what is second.

Sadness?

Pain?

Anger?

Anything we can express with an emoji?

It's hate, probably.

Love is the antidote for hate.

Me and my Da visit Ballycotton Lighthouse every Sunday after church. I’m comforted by the ritual of it. At the end of each mass, Father Conway reminds us that we’re being sent forth to live out the mission of Christ, which Da tells me just means we should try to be good to each other. Then we reply, "Thanks be to God,” loosen our ties and shuffle out of the pews as fast as we can. If we miss the noon ferry, there isn’t another sailing until Monday. Luckily, we only live a few houses down and have become quite good at the quick change.

As soon as we step inside, we strip off our church clothes in the front hallway, leaving the crumpled laundry on the floor, and slide into our jumpers and wellies. I know Mam would shake her head at the state of our fine blazers lying there wrinkled and covered in bits of mud, so sometimes when we aren’t too hurried, I hang them properly on their hooks before we’re out the door. Sad to say that today wasn’t one of those days though, so I mumbled my apologies – “Tá brón orm, Mam.” She always loved when I’d give Gaeilge a try, no matter how badly I bungled it so.

~

My Granda, my Mam’s father, had been the last keeper of Ballycotton Lighthouse before the light became electric and then automated altogether. Each time we walked up the winding path to the summit of the island, my Da would tell me the same stories about his work there. How he began before dusk, but continued well past dawn. How he was not only in charge of the lighting and maintaining of the beacon’s wick and lens, but the rest of the lighthouse as well, and all the surrounding grounds. The island was full of creatures o’course, from soaring falcons to families of goats, and it was important to maintain the unspoiled nature of it all.

I always thought that the lighthouse, painted entirely black save for the bright red gallery at the top, looked out of place sitting upon the lovely green grass, surrounded by shimmering blue-gray sea. The world around it was like something out of a story book really, and in comparison, it could look quite sad or sinister depending on the weather. Today, I thought it looked a bit melancholy myself, and I told Da. He chuckled and said I’d become quite the deep thinker at the age of 15.

He then laid our flannel blanket on the spot near the boathouse that gave us the best view and unpacked a picnic of brown bread, cheese, biscuits and two thermoses of hot tea. The tea was essential to battling the sea breeze, which could make you feel bitter cold to your bones. Today it whipped at our faces and turned our noses bright red, but it didn’t much matter because our bellies were quickly full and warm.

After eating, we sat and listened to the woosh of the waves for as they knocked against the shoreline, keeping time like a metronome, until Da left to have a smoke. I laid back with my head propped on my backpack and looked up to the gallery. I thought of how Granda had to paint every single banister on that balcony fresh each season because the harsh salt air could turn a bright red to a dull, lifeless pink in only a few short months.

I continued to stare off for a while, following the Herring Gulls as they glided on gusts of wind, when a sudden shift in the weather caused the clouds to thicken and the sky to grow dark with a quickness. I heard a rumbling of thunder in the distance when I realized Da still hadn’t come back, so I stood and called to him, cupping my hands over my mouth. “Da!”

There was no reply.

I started hastily packing our things, as a lashing rain began to fall. But just as I bent over to reach for our blanket, I heard a crash so loud and close that I swear I could feel my insides vibrating. I stumbled backward, tripping over my bag and sending our pair of thermoses tumbling down the hill. I meant to start after them, but as soon as I’d gotten back on my feet, a great flash of lightning struck the rod atop the lighthouse and lit the entire sky. I was absolutely gobsmacked at the sight of it all until I saw something even more mental - the silhouette of a man standing on the lantern gallery’s balcony, dangerously close to where the lightning just struck.

As I squinted through the whipping rain, he slowly raised his arm and seemed to gesture for me to come.

I wiped my eyes with my sleeve to get a better look, but when I opened them again, he’d disappeared on me. Was that Da, I wondered, calling me to come in from the rain? Maybe he knew a secret way to get in, like Granda had a hidden key under a well-placed rock that was still there all these years later. I couldn’t say for sure, but it was really bucketing down, so I decided I’d take my chances. I threw the blanket over my head for a make-shift umbrella and sprinted toward the lighthouse.

When I reached the base of it, the iron barred security door was swinging open on its hinges in the wind, so I thought for sure now that Da had gone inside. I used both hands and leaned on the heavy inner door with my shoulder to push it open. As it scraped against the stone floor, it made a screeching noise that echoed through the lighthouse chamber and sent shivers straight through me, but still I was glad to be inside and out of the rain.

“Da?” I called once more.

It was quiet and dark inside, the sounds of the wind and rain muffled by thick sandstone walls. I moved toward an old lantern resting on a table in the middle of the room. And, as if it was placed there just for me, a matchbook lay open next to it, holding a single match. I had to strike it three times before it finally caught, as my hands were shaking on me. Once I was able to light the well of the lantern, it cast a warm glow about the room, and I let out an unsteady breath.

I glanced around, looking down at the floor, and there were no muddy boot prints but my own. No signs of Da, it seemed, until I heard a noise upstairs. I tilted my head to see if I could get a better listen, and sure enough, I heard it again. It was a kind of tinkling sound, maybe like that of coins shifting in a glass jar.

“Da? You’re acting the maggot!” I called out as jolly as I could, trying to calm myself.

I started up the spiral staircase, holding the lantern near my feet so I didn’t miss a step. When I reached the first landing, there was a room to the left so small that I needed to duck to enter. Scattered about were rusted parts of pulleys and gears that must’ve once been used in the clockwork mechanism that turned the light of the beacon above. I was fascinated by them all o’course, but as I shifted the lantern, something shiny caught my eye. And there, beneath the room’s only window, was a set of silver keys. It hung from a small door in the wall, the proper key already inside the keyhole, just waiting to be turned.

I looked from left to right, as if Da was going to jump out and tell me this was all for a laugh, but no – it seemed I was still alone. So, I set the lantern on the window’s edge, knelt and turned the key. As I did, the rest of the keys jingled against one another and it dawned on me that this was the sound that’d led me to this room in the first place. If Da was nowhere to be found, then who’d been here just before me? Who left these keys for me find?

My mind raced as I turned the key and opened the door, only to discover a little compartment that looked empty at first glance. So I stuck my face in the doorway for a closer look, and there, not so far from the tip of my nose, I spotted a bit of newspaper taped in place. I carefully lifted it free and stood back in the light to get a better look as I unfolded it.

A young Granda and Mam were looking back at me.

In the photo, they sat in a small wooden boat settled on the shoreline. She looked happy and wore a funny little flower crown atop her head. Even in black and white, I could tell the spiky flowers tucked within it were water mint, which was her favorite. They thrive in dampness, which is why great purple bunches of it grow all over the island. Ma always dismissed the science, though - said they were proof of the magic of this place.

The caption under the photo read, ‘James’ daughter Siobhan sets off to school, readying her boat on Ballycotton’s north shore,’ and the article that accompanied it was about what life was like for the keepers’ family living in Ireland’s last remaining lighthouse station. I tried to imagine her laughing and smiling with Granda as they took the boat to Cork City to meet her mates, but I couldn’t muster images of anything other than the day of her funeral. The way she looked all wrong because they’d used make up to cover the gray of skin, even though she never wore any when she was alive. The way my father clenched his hands so tightly together as he knelt by her coffin, angry at her for leaving us and angry at all those who said it was God’s will. Was this the same God who wanted us to be good to one another, even though he could be so cruel to us?

And I couldn’t help but to think, o’course, that it was that shite wooden boat that took my Mam away from me.

~

I was six years old when Mam went to the island one Sunday after church. Da later told me that she liked to go there in the weeks and months after Granda’s death because she said she could still feel him there. And he said that, at the time, it was the only thing that brought her any bit of happiness besides me.

She caught the noon ferry, just as we’d done today, but spent so much time lost in her memories that she missed the 6 o’clock home. So, she went into the boathouse to see if her little wooden boat was still there, and sure enough, it was. She dragged it down to shore and set off for Cork City, just like she’d done in her school days. It was summer then, so it would’ve stayed light until 11. I imagine the sky was still bright and full of promise for things to get better when she returned home.

She hadn’t been out too long when she noticed that the boat was moving quite slow on her. Not that it was ever quick o’course, but it was even more sluggish than was usual. She stood up to see if something had caught hold of the side, when she heard a gentle squish beneath her feet. Her toes felt damp and she realized the boat was taking on water.

Later, Da would be told by The Commissioner of Irish Lights that every building in the lighthouse station had been found infested with termites a month earlier. Many of the outbuildings’ contents were either thrown away or had received major repairs, but somehow the little boat was missed, and we still don’t know why. So, poor Mam took it out into the wild Atlantic, full of tiny holes that she couldn’t see. It was on the verge of crumbling right there with her in it.

Although she was a strong swimmer, it was quite windy, so the waves were high and the sea frigid. She had no tool but her hands to bail out water, and it only served to tire her. When she finally abandoned the boat, she had to battle icy currents with no life vest to help keep her afloat. After a time, she simply succumbed to the cold and exhaustion, her body washing ashore sometime near dawn. She happened to be found by a local fisherman who ventured out early to get the best catch of the day.

~

Like Mam, I started getting lost in my thoughts out here too, ever since she’d been gone. And I was all tangled up in them when I heard a loud crash from above that snapped me out of my head. I noticed there were dark spots spattered across the newspaper clipping I still held in my hands. I’d been crying and hadn’t realized it. Quickly, I wiped the tears from my face with the back of my hand and shoved the it into the pocket of my pants. I ran up the stairs, worried that Da may be there and hurt. But when I got to the watch room, Da was still nowhere to be found. It was one of the storm panes that’d caused the noise; it had broken, causing little pieces of glass to scatter across the floor.

It crunched under my feet as I moved toward where the pane had fallen. The metal bar that supported it had somehow snapped in the storm, and with a strong gust of wind, the piece of the bar that remained hanging from the window’s frame swung and whacked me straight in the chest. I hit the floor with mighty thud and everything went dark. Although I couldn’t see, I could still feel as a great chill rolled through me and I shivered like mad. Soon, a heaviness settled in on my body, pushing me toward sleep. But just as felt I was about to sink beneath the floor boards to somewhere far away, the air began to change around me. It warmed and smelled not of salt or rain. Instead, it smelled like something more familiar.

When I was a little boy, Da would show me all sorts of photos so I could keep remembering Mam and Granda. In nearly all of them, Granda was smoking a pipe. Da said Mam had grown up smelling the sweet scent of Granda’s favorite tobacco, Peterson Irish Flake, and that whenever she smelled it, she felt safe and warm. O’course, I wanted to know what it smelled like for myself, so Da took me to the smoke shop to pick up a tin after she was gone. I keep it in a shoebox under my bed and from time to time, when I miss her and want to feel safe and warm too, I open it and breathe deeply.

It often smelled like different things to me each time – vanilla and berries and leather and woods – but right now, here in the lighthouse, I could smell all of them at once. The scent grew so strong, it felt almost like being wrapped in a blanket made from it. And that’s when the darkness began to lift.

I carefully got to my feet and ran my hand over my chest to find that strangely, it didn’t ache one bit. I noticed a soft white light shining through the broken windowpane, and as I looked out toward the sea, I couldn’t believe what I saw in the distance. The rain had lessened, and the stars were shimmering brighter than I had ever seen in all my life. Their light bounced off little waves on the surface of the sea, casting glimmers onto a small wooden boat. Upon that boat, I could see a man and woman. They looked more than shadows, but still not quite solid. The woman wore a white dress that billowed softly behind her in the wind, and as the man rowed, she stood and slowly waved. I squinted to try to see them better, but they were made of a mist that the light passed straight through, and soon they simply vanished into the soft rain.

~

“Liam!”

My Da pulled me away from the gaping hole where the window once stood.

“What in Jesus’ name are you doing?!”

I just shook my head and said nothing, because in truth, I didn’t know. What could I say? That I had the truly massive idea to follow some random noises to the top of the lighthouse in the middle of a raging storm? That I was busy chasing ghosts?

He grasped my shoulders and stayed there for a moment, looking me in the eyes. “Right then,” he said, “just come on now, we’ll miss the ferry home.”

When we climbed on board, I slumped in my seat and rested my head against his shoulder, feeling much too old for this sort of thing but needing to do it anyway.

“Where were you?” I asked.

He told me that when he left to have a smoke, he stepped behind the old boathouse to shield himself from the wind. Soon after the rain started, he legged it back to where we’d been sitting but I was gone. Since he knew the lighthouse and outbuildings were all locked, he thought I might’ve made my way down by the pier to wait for the ferry. But when I wasn’t there, he started back up the hill again. And that’s when he saw the lighthouse door swinging open in the wind.

He asked me what I’d been thinking, going up there, but I was too knackered to make sense of it, assuming there was any to be made at all. “I don’t know…Tá brón orm,” I mumbled and drifted off to sleep.

Da stroked my hair like he did when I was little and had been dreaming bad dreams. I was still in a daze when we walked back home.

“Maybe a cuppa and a lie down, yeah?” he said, as we reached our front door.

I nodded in agreement. Right now, I wanted nothing more than hot tea and my bed. So, once we got inside, I threw my jumper on the floor and kept on ditching layers, tossing them over my shoulder as I made my way up the stairs. But then I thought of Mam, so I trod back down to put my jumper on the hook the way she would’ve liked.

When I reached the last step, I was surprised to see my blazer already hanging there on its proper hook and not on the floor where I’d left it. At first, I thought Da might’ve picked it up, but I knew the chances of that were slim because he’s just as much of a mess as me. So, I walked over to get a closer look, when something purple caught my eye.

There, nestled safely in its breast pocket, was a single sprig of water mint. “Mam?” I quietly asked the empty hallway, not really knowing if I expected an answer.

“What’s that, Liam?” Da called, making his way toward me with the fresh pot of tea.

I turned to him just as he asked, “Do you smell…?”

I smiled and finished his sentence for him. “Peterson Irish Flake.”

I raised the glass to my lips. It tasted like freedom. Freedom from the day's troubles. From my overactive mind. I offered you the glass. I wondered what sort of freedom you tasted.

When it's just the two of us, I try to remember - too much freedom can be disastrous.

Sometimes, I think you enjoy freedom even more than I do. What does that mean?

I do like tasting freedom with you. But my mind on freedom is a dangerous place. So many pitfalls.

There are times when freedom brings me to tears. You don't like this.

There are times when freedom brings me to hysterical anger. You like this even less.

There are times when freedom brings me to shed my inhibitions. You love this.

So here we are, tasting freedom again. Where will tonight's journey take us? Do you know how close I am to offering you true freedom? Freedom from our relationship? You probably don't. But I do.

Will I have the freedom to tell you?