What is left of them, the men who make mankind, speak no sense; they do not listen to me. Cold as gods. Statues of gods. Only their own voices seem to warm them – they speak to speak, no action occurs but the facade of movement, dig a ditch, fill it back to the brim.

Were there only a God… goodbye.

Daily I watch the flood of news, witness our whirring routines, I have put my hand inside the wound of our Constitution – I feel the screams choke at each new heave of my lungs, I feel always the stirring of seeds in my chest. I leave them untended and parched, unwatered; they grow nonetheless.

Hope colors to fury. I am forever alone in a crowded room, and I can take the ball of the universe and smash it with my hands – nothing happens. All remains unchanged. All daily is a different-faces same, spirals without meaning; all gone past my control.

This is not how life should be – there are rules. The hoops were leaped cleanly through, unquestioning. I dotted and crossed the rest, waited then with palms outstretched. Change, peace, love, meaning – and more still the promises of rules obeyed.

Yet there is no peace, love never found its capital, meanings change or cannot be found by any means.

And all still so unchanged. Love in greeting cards or bedrooms, questions left unanswered from the dawn of time. This is not how life was to be. No. This is not life.

Life though! I have life, have not broken by its challenges – the entrenched worms may yet show softness of underbelly. While yet life inhabits me, I can ply each scale for weakness. Nothing can break me, I am broken already, broken by my own hand. I have broken myself – and each day I do a sorting of the parts, I measure and test, rebuilding myself to fight another day.

Refuse ever to yield.

Gentle Reader, forgive this final rant, it is only a meaningless soul, stripped of flesh, laid on a table for your examination. The Red Letter has failed, all has failed, and The Red Letter is tonight in its last edition.