He begged her to help her daughter. She’d consent if he’d never show his face again; she’d explain his death/disappearance & pay for the mock funeral. They shook hands, but he never signed the contract. Withered now like a tattered leaf caught in between the rice paper of a well kept poorly read bible. We don’t all have skeletons in the closet it’s the mystery of the matter that lurks beneath our pillows or pockets that scares me. Some forgotten deleted promise in the inbox of…Boredom once scared me: to be forgotten was a fear but what comes close to the assassination of a flowerbed that never had the chance to be trampled by hooves wild & untamed & unaware of the bondage they beat upon?