Should I?
Should you?
Who are you?
Me. That's who. In the night I have the upper claw, tomorrow it's a face palm.
What then, do you truly stand for?
Stand? The snarl of roses, the sharpness of thorns, the crooked endless whispers of vain poise and long poisoned shadows. To be the shield of my mother, to be lost thereafter, the final mile as strangers call me sir and mean it, the storm I know that will end the joke.