Terror.  Every morning lit with.  Someone to trust has ceased being a fantasy.  The way people felt now was none of my business, so I let it go; yet the yellow curled post-it remained behind my desk.  When one of them wanted to spring clean my house, I let her.  Nostalgia Jones was famous in her own rite, for the Developmental Theory of Supra-Acceptance.  Most of them stayed but a month, upon reading what Was she became gone and Jonny Cash’s rendition of Reznor played on loop.  What had I become?  I didn’t know, but it was not aimed, just general  pendulous momentums and willfulness.  On occasion I wouldn’t remember their names, so “hon” was ubiquitous, until at  the Circle K the girl said that was offensive.   Pardon madame. So now I’m a whore?  There was little winning left for me, my days were in the belly of the locusts.  Millennials at war with a culture that I tasted, touched, and smelled.  The last time I said the n word had come and gone and my vernacular leaned heavily left but bereft of weight.  Just appearance.  Myspace squared.