H2

Potvaliant soliloquies are brown, with self-assured sober assertion. Quixotic rambles of the detoxic are pink, fluffy, and free. And Hortense asked you to leave. And Arthur texted, frantically, maniacally, threatening to cut off his hand and tourniquet the stump without masked relief. And it is with disbelief (or perhaps, more likely the opposite of what I mean), I pause. I may appear as an elucidation of your solution, but I need not interpret who I am as what I am not, nor ever have been: a cause.