Will he come back to me? The silence in the house might break her delicate wrists in two, toss her on the woodpile, long nights, to keep warm. Abbreviated days. All of her memory of him coming home. The squeaking of the belt under the hood of his Jeep, where he parked beneath the sycamore tree. One of the kittens would bound out to meet him. Fatigue had not undone him. She would quickly get up and wrap a sweater around her, step into the sandals by their bed on the mahogany floors, and take the 45 steps down to the kitchen, the backs of her thongs clicking into her heels. She would grab a nice glazed ceramic bowl out of the cabinet, pour some oats and some water without measuring, into a pot on the stove. Oatmeal was his favorite. Then she would hop back up onto the landing, and click down to the front door to swing it open for him. The feeling of him pressing into her. The cool kiss on the neck. These were the memories.
A cultural analysis – or defrag – of the perceived madness and its development in the mind from inception on… The designated criminal who judged a fellow sentient for a difference on any continuum (ie sexuality, race, gender, education, age, ethnicity, body image, fanciful morality plays) would be taken to a room without furniture to stand upon an intelligent floor which assessed the sensitive points of any criminal scanning the foot with footprint technology, then, when any thought, feeling or behavior indicated a relapse into poor or judgmental bias, such would be confronted and corrected with a paralyzing shot of vibrational frequency dissonant to the criminal, and the corresponding organ would temporarily be shut down or limited of function for up to 24 hours. If the kidney got tapped, the subject would begin to experience blood toxicity and jaundice, and feel the attitude and judgment fall away as all energy became devoted to trying to locate and sweep out the source of infinite pain. An eradication of hate campaign was underway. – KatYa