the_wind_exotic_and_familiar blueberries he followed her up the path and back to the truck. she was right, they should be leaving. the authorities would be looking for them by now. it was dangerous to be exposed, in view, with the sun having risen. he asked her if she wanted to put his coat on. she said no. he opened her door and she slid inside. he went around to his side, giving a quick glance about the trees, and sea, and sky. there was no one, nothing but memory. when he sat down, she was looking through a few of his cds that he had scattered on the front seat. "can you play this?" she asked, extending it. he noticed the scars on her arm again. "sure," he said. it was jeff buckley's grace. he started the truck and it was faithful as always. and off they drove and she knew where they were going because he already told her. and there was a breeze coming into her open window and it was warm, but not strange. it was exotic, and somehow familiar, and there was hope in it. he looked over at her, at her hair as the gentle wind ran its buttery fingers through it, and he thought it was one of the most beautiful things he ever saw. 020210 ... unhinged she needed to hear it. she needed to get the tears out; they were like some weird poison collecting in her heart and she felt the time for poison and scars passing her by. she hit the search button on the player and put it on track number 5. so_real always reminded her of them. together, fucking, smiling at her like spectres, knowing she would always be there. the slide show of her memories flashed by on her the backs of her eyelids and her fist began to pound on the door to the beat of the song. her voice came out like a slap across the face 'could you please pull over the car right now?' frAnk looked at her, concerned, pulled over the car and held out his hand, but she didn't see it extended. she had already propelled herself out of the car onto her knees, holding her hair back with one hand and clutching her stomach with the other, the small bits of industrialized hospital food left in her stomach mixing in the puddles of rain and mud. frAnk walked over and knelt down by her and put his hand on her back but she swatted his hand away and her hair fell back around her face covering her dry eyes. she looked up at him 'they can't make me cry anymore. they make me so sick; i hate them. but they can't make me cry anymore. my name is amarilla.' she stood up and walked back to the truck, the suction of her feet in the mud almost knocking her off balance. .......... the staff had been looking for her all night. they found a trail of footprints leading off to the road. the first tracker, not being too bright didn't notice the set of shod tracks and the barefoot tracks, thought that the crazy girl was just circling herself. there was no evidence of frAnk's truck on the road. he never parked in the same place along the road. and the fact that he was gone; he disappeared all the time. he was their vagrant gardener. he came and went as he pleased and he never punched a time card. he had been around for a week straight pruning all the dead winter plants so that they would grow straight in the spring. the administration figured it had been time for him to disappear again, no one really putting two and two together. frAnk had always followed the rules. there would be no reason to suspect him of kidnapping or assisting escape. the only thing left to do was call mr. cruda and tell him his daughter was missing. 020210 ... Ptolemy DCLVIII "Fwoooosh," said the wind in a breezy-yet-commanding tone. "Shhwiiiiiiiishhhhh." It was very interesting, and you found it fascinating. The fwoooshing, the shwishing ... you couldn't get enough of it, I'm told. I'm just telling what I hear. "Shhhpwaaaaaa," called the wind in an exotic-yet-familiar voice. "Kshtooooosh..." 060122 what's it to you? who go blather from