i'm tired of caring. you, your consecrated archways, your story-spinning whirligigs, the way you papier-mache together cleavage and moustachioed bravado until someone — anyone — puts the sword through the magician's coffin. i'm tired of poisons and poultices and precipices. i'm tired of unnecessary hand-wringing and necessary interventions. i'm tired of swinging at shadows you've conjured up, puppet-master around a cauldron of sins and puppy-dog tails. the trail of broken hearts you've left in your wake is a miracle in itself, you stepping lightfooted across the watery roil of souls more cursed than yours, or perhaps just less clever. i don't even think you're clever, just smart. you know the difference. that tongue-twisting finger-licking catastrophizing echelon, riding back through the portcullis after victory in distant lands, that's what you want, isn't it? i'm tired of caring. i'm tired of polishing your saddle and saving the baby's breath that crumples in your hoofprints. let me take my gilded scissors to the heart of your tangled wood and cut your hair while you sleep. it doesn't matter.