The end of this one sided, constipated conversation was marked by a bitter irony.
So how is it that I end up talking to your ego and not you?
Slam goes the glass.
Ego. The cataclysmic bird that flew way too far only to wind up in a barbed bush.
There..I say and place mine on the table. Half open.
He couldn't part with his though.
The night was starry and stone cold dead. You could whisper and be heard with astounding clarity.
On the night like this I cut that man in two, because what I am looking for is more than a piece of his mind.
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