the tone. if there was a tone, and we can’t hear much anymore, we suspect it’s estranged with the colorings of the last hangup.
forgive me, i’m at your door with a bag full of unsolicited dogma. i can’t help it. i’ve been a steward lately. miracles unfolding before my crusty eyes.
you’re probably ready to stomp it out.
stomp away. i’m here, i’m here with the warm water and a stiff brush, when you’re ready for me to wash the shit off your foot.