Sing, my little bird. Sing your song for me, won’t you?

Such sorrowful silence is such a sorry state for our souls. I am stuck in strange sentiment, save me, say you’ll save me?

But you are silent. So silent. Sweet siren, won’t you sing?

I am so sorry, to keep you stowed away. But the rain! The endless shower would snap your paper wings, would silence your spirit in seconds. Better you stay safe in the soft security of a cell. You’ll survive forever, I swear. Just stay, and sing, please sweet songbird, sing.

You have such serene beauty, silent songster. The story of the day on your left wing, a sorry lost senator on your right; lies and slander strewn across your body. Such sick villainry, turned sweet upon your self.

Please, my sweet, just sing.

Oh, I shall survive getting soaked. I am suited to the sorry sogginess; I stay silent in solemn remembrance of stored sorrows. The rain suits this sour state. But you, you are such a small and fragile saint. Your paper skin would slough off in seconds if the water saw you. If you cease standing and stray into the soaked surroundings you will be lost to me. And then I will never hear you sing.


OK, I’m sorry, little bird. You are so right. I’m sorry. I strayed from the path of sainthood, for sure. I will release you. Please, if you know what sits in the shadow of that place, you’ll stay. Please just stand steadfast when I remove the security of your cell.

Oh. OK then. soar away sweet bird. Don’t you see what will soon happen? You’ll never know secure sleep again, just the sorry slosh of broken paper that was once your skin and is no longer!

My gods, what a beautiful sound. Your song, your song! It is serene, so sweet yet sorrowful, such a mournful story!

And it is silenced so soon. Farewell, my sweet. Soar sound.