In The Locality Of Whimpers The static of those times was deafening, transcripts and telegrams bogging down all the lines, apothecaries and epistlaries grew quite rich. They all began to tell their stories, everyone of them, quite dismal because of the chatter and negations. We all hoped for more but came up with so much less. So many forgotten aftermaths, so many more to make, we felt quite sad. Our whimpers grew to infamous proportions, exponential even, until we wept with a single growl, "Enough is enough. We want more." Lost as strangers in the strangeness of going home to find the huts burned to their very interior ashes, those ashes in the sky or the breath of our friend Iblis. He was tremendously hard to find except in the fine print of lawyers' contracts. He wasn't what you would call, a good listener. Iblis produced ashes like whispers, his spooky action at a distance and stood to gain more than a few borrowed souls and heartbroken women, a real deadbeat dad rounding up his vixen. That is what they say about him anyway. She said to him early on, "Come and get me, if you can. I hide quite near the tan area called the gray matter. It isn't easy to find but try anyway. I've got nerves of steel."