July 10th, 2002 - 1:56 a.m.

She is at it again.

Two twenty two in the morning. An odd time to look at the clock.

One hundred and eighteen years. An impossible age. (A great locker number, Lap.)

One hundred and seven steps. A mother�s love.

Such a pathetic state of affairs. Sickish. Temperamental. Feeling not-to-be-touched.

Back off. And watch where you tread.

Oh. Too late. Heads will roll for all of this.

Or. Perhaps not. Just eyes.

N.

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