clandestine ovenbird She arranges a clandestine meeting, finding me in the ruins of a decommissioned warehouse. The floor is dark with the oily blood of silent machines. She has something to tell me, something that might just save my life. She says that you aren’t who I think you are. She says you’re capable of unspeakable things. She says she’s telling me this because there’s still time to run. I start to cry because what was simple and true has been muddied. It feels impossible to know anything. Facts are cotton candy in the rain, unstable and oversweet. They can’t be trusted. Still. I’ve known nothing but your kindness, your hands always seconds away from scooping some overlooked soul from the flood. I could be wrong about everything, of course, and I’ve given you the power to tear me apart. A man walks by with his arm severed at the shoulder and sprays me with gore from the wound. This could be you, he seems to say. This could be you. I could run, but I stay. Who needs limbs anyway? 260622 what's it to you? who go blather from