affame_le_geant_a_dog's_voice fyn gula "cile, cile, cile, bulbulum, cile," over and over the song of saumboo hung on the humid air like the weight of water. puppertwinkle did not recognize the language for it was a turkish love song that most turks knew from childhood. cile means sorrow and trouble and bulbul means nightingale and so the question is asked to freedom, why must we endure such sadness? when saumboo was overcome like this, which was an event occuring with disturbing regularity, puppertwinkle felt useless. he was limited in what he could do for his beloved friend anyway, since saumboo's stone body prevented him from experiencing physical comfort. so it was the meditation of his heart transferred into words that he was left with. although even that wasn't easy for him. "i can never say what i want to say," the little dog thought to himself. "i try to say something, but all i get is the wrong words or the exact opposite words from what i mean. i try to correct myself, and that only makes it worse. i lose track of what i was trying to say to begin with. it's like i'm split in two and playing tag with myself. one half is chasing the other half around this big, fat tree. the other me has the right words, but this me can't catch him." even when on that rare ocassion he was satisfied with his thoughts, hoping they were sentiment with encouraging value, they usually fell like weakly shot arrows with not enough power to stick in the target or falling short of it altogether. yet, he did not keep his voice as a guarded secret. everyone wants a gold star on their forehead. he did not allow self-debasement to effect is motivation. "we cannot recreate the times we never had," he told himself. storytelling is the breast milk that happiness must suck on to grow and perpetuate. and so he spoke to saumboo in his delicate sorrow, trying to rekindle the spark of their former lives with the magic of their memories, but unfortunately it was like the white noise of a television no one is watching, simply the sound of a dog's voice. incoherent mumbo jumbo only producing a dry throat when the water bowl is empty. efforts at paws on compssion were futile. there was no soft lap to sit on and only a face to lick, yet even then puppertwinkle realised his breath was foul and he had body odor. and so he spent the time he otherwise would be depressed, scratching fleas and turning his skin into a mass of sores. therefore, he was disposed to silent prayer and the availability of amusement. he picked up the second present and tugged at the red satin ribbon that kept the blue sky with clouds wrapping paper bound. he tore at it with his teeth and found underneath the crumpled paper a glass case, about 6 by 12 centimeters, with a simple brass clasp. with a slight twinge of fear he undid it. inside, there was folded black tissue which he delicately unraveled. puppertwinkle gasped at what he discovered. 020926 what's it to you? who go blather from