Why do you tear at me? So painful. It is a pain that releases pain. You don’t look like a harpy, what are you? What do you want? I can’t tell you anything but what I see from my rooted prison. When I tore my spirit from my body I landed here, sprouted and now I am what you see. Poetic, no? I gave up my body and now I am unable to move. There’s a word for that but I’m running out of time. Oh! There’s some blood on you. Is it my fault you chose a branch right above your head? I’m clotting already. So I should wait all day here for you to bleed out a question. Spit out I mean. Arlgrlarraa. Ouch! Are you without all sentiment of pity? That’s your question, what do I see? What do you see you ask me? Open your eyes! Graves and graves. What do I see. Must be twenty or thirty funerals every day. Funerals going on all the time all over the world. Everywhere every minute. Thousands every hour. Shoveling them under by the cartload; too many in the world. Argblle. Why do you break me off?! I hadn’t fully clotted that time. That day? I saw a leanjawed harpy and her hatchling, dirty face, stained with tears, crocodile. Mutes shouldering a coffin. First the stiff, then the friends of the stiff. That’s it, the pomp of death. Arglulgrr. Fine. And my son moving soap from one pocket to another. There. You happy? Now go.