right_number fyn gula he called the wrong number that night he wanted to reach her, but ended up talking ten minutes anyway, that's the kind of towne he lived in. could be any little towne. the old man was somebody's grandfather, a tired voice as worn as the calloused fingers that held the phone. seems he knew an alice when he once bought a horse from a young woman with hair like a raven. she had to turn away when they put the gelding on the trailer, had to hide her face in her fleece coat. it was a part of her she would never know again. there was a silence across the wire as if they were respecting her loss. and when he hung up, he wondered how he fucked up the number, wishing he'd remember so he could call back someday. 010329 ... unhinged i had the right number. he just never picks up his phone. didn't call back either. maybe it was the wrong number. 010329 ... birdcage whispers the phone doesn't ring (such a long time now) and the sun doesn't shine as the dust settles like snowdrifts in here and i know this did not happen without my complicity 010329 what's it to you? who go blather from