Oh sleep! It is a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole!
To Mary Queen the praise be given!
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,
That slid into my soul.

"Of course, I love you," the flower said to him. "If you were not aware of it, it was my fault. That is not important. But you have been just as foolish. Try to be happy..."
...
"I shall have to put up with a few caterpillars if I want to see butterflies. I understand they are very beautiful."

The only salvation

For your atrocity

- of not posting in two days -

Is your referral,

- Most poigant -

To another comic genius.

I think of you so much. I think of us, and all the funny, nice things we've done, and all the nicer things we're going to do. I think of nice places and people, and, when I think of them, you're always there, always tall and death-mouthed and big-eyed and no-voiced, with a collegiate ribbon or a phallic hat. I think of us in pubs and clubs and cinemas and beds. I think I love you.

The sky is lightening --

The cowboy singing to himself,

A woman cries, a lover dies;

The dude abides.

I'm living in heaven / I'm floating in a fairy tale.

Amy woke with a start. Immediately her hand went to her belly, reassuring herself that her babies were safe.
As always, when she was sleeping alone she was vigilant, and a bit nervous. She collected herself for a
minute, analyzing the last minute. A car had pulled up outside, slamming into something, causing a racket.
The garbage can. She raised herself on one elbow, checked the clock that sat on the cluttered nightstand.
1:15 am. Mark wasn't supposed to be home till the afternoon. She panicked, and was out of bed in a flash.

She grabbed the mag lite from the floor, the glock from the drawer -- checked the chamber -- grabbed a leather
jacket from behind the door and threw it over the wife-beater she was wearing. Her heart pounded in her
throat. Her gut told her something was very wrong.

As she passed the window she saw headlights of a car shining in, and she could see in their glimmer liquid
spraying in the air. The car was facing the house, half ways up on the curb, high beams shining askew. It was
Mark's car.

She rushed outside.

***

As she dashed across the lawn she heard the phone ringing inside, the emergency line. She ignored it.

Smoke was coming from the hood of the squad car, and bullet holes and score marks lined the side and hood of
the car. Half the front windshield was spidered, half was missing. She could she Mark inside, his head
lolling to one side.

She stifled a scream, and pulled at the passenger door. The handle came off in her hands, and, losing
control, she tore the rest of the door off the car and dove inside.

Mark's hair was matted with blood, his badge was missing. He was wearing his seat belt, but it, too, was
covered in blood.

She gently held his head; brushed the blood out of his face with the palm of her hand. His eyes flicked open
and shut. She carefully undid his seat belt, and pulled open his jacket. She gasped. She saw burn marks,
bullet wounds, and blood. Bits of bone protruded from his chest. His shirt was wet with blood. His body began
to quiver, and his arm moved, jerkily.

As the tears streamed down her face, she held him close. His body shook again and then was still.


***


"It's okay," she whispered, between sobs. "I'm here, Mark. I love you."

"We're here," she sobbed again, indicating her swollen belly. "We love you."


***


She was still holding him when the screaming of the sirens ceased, and turned into doors opening and
slamming.

"Mark was pronounced dead at the scene," she heard some say. "They shot him eight times..."

"He was doing his duty, he died in the line of service..."

"Mrs. T, come this way, please."

She looked helplessly, dumbly, at the hands moving toward her.

She kissed his forehead, and surrendered to the darkness.


***