809. slippage

My hand is sore, something I only notice when I write. It is the holding of the pen by which I know it, this pain, know it is not natural, not the aging I see so clearly in the mirror nor some disease of unknown origin. My hand hurts to write and only when I write; otherwise, I feel no pain at all; the hand is, in every way, whole, healthy. The pain, to be clear, is not in the writing or perhaps I should say not in the act of writing, but rather it is in the hand, or more so, in my mind and transferred to the hand. And by this holding of the pen, I know. I am under extreme stress.

What I find most terrifying is not the stress, but that I must know it slant, know it by shadow, know it by degree of act and not of pure consciousness or unhindered awareness. This crass blindness to my own self is what I call slippage. I am aging. Life has found me wanting. In my premature weakness, in this calving of the psyche, I become, under the chisel, the hammer, as so many icebergs. And in this way, I see myself slowly floating away as one might if from shore, from what was whole, the country of oneself. And too, there is this sense that the shards shall never be whole again. One feels one is less than before. That what was there yesterday, is not here today. I suppose there is some correlation to knowledge and memory and the erosion that age imposes on experience. One feels as a book with pages missing, the story fuzzy, the fragments that remain as puzzling as the gaps. Like looking at a dry riverbed and wondering of the water that used to flow, must have coursed, as blood courses, in the living. Something died within me when Cait died. I can feel its weight on what remains. I carry it every day. And to think, I know it by my hand, by writing.

journal entry, John Discovery--written sometime shortly after departure from Polaris

730. the fear of swimming

The Papa/Kyra portion of this chapter is a remembrance that occurred shortly after the episode with the fireflies: 93. Dance of the Fireflies

__________


Kyra: Papa, what do I do with Love?

Papa: Swim.

Kyra: Swim?

Papa: If I threw you in the lake, what would you do?


__________

John: Where are you?

Kyra: Right here silly.

John: I know that look. You're anywhere but here.

Kyra: Was thinking about Papa and swimming.

John: So why the furrow?

Kyra: Fear.

John: Of what?

Kyra: Swimming.

John: Really?

Kyra: Not that kind of swimming.

John: What are you talking about?

Kyra: The swimming in the soul of another. That's the fear.

John: You know what.

Kyra: What?

John: It's a chance I'm willing to take.

Kyra: Just so you know, once we take that step, there is no going back.

John: Don't want to go back. I see a horizon, a dawn and I want to know that day; not the days that have come and gone.

729. of cliffs and angels

Draft of a note written by John to Kyra. Not yet delivered.


The image is of dinner, fine dining, white table cloth, sparkling silver. Crystal in your hand, quarter full of cabernet, the color of blood, full-bodied, oak aged. The bouquet, as flowers distilled within glass and the contrast of the oxblood wine with your golden hair seems of a princess fair, of a queen wise, of a vision dreamed. Your eyes are alive, blue shards glossy of the night, of candle light, of the evening come, of what is not yet done. And in the holding I watch, a simple act, to hold a glass, to bring it to lip, to taste not the hand of time or the sacrifice of vine and soil, sun and rain, but of history, of sunlight past and clouds nevermore, to take upon tongue the mysteries of man, to take of fruit once sought and now given.

You wear a white stole as snow down the vale, of skin white to match, of shadow and light, Ansel Adams graceful. A glimmer of cheek, but not too much, perhaps a quarter moon of light, of dimple blush of smile, of skin smooth as milk, or cream, or as butter warmed in midday sun. Words are shared and across the table hands are held and from a distance others look without staring and what is known need not be said, for how does one say love but in the knowing beyond lip or language, someplace higher than mind, where perhaps souls swim with hearts and angels watch from cliffs. I have this vision. Clear as memory. And I feel the attraction, the gravitational pull to your orbit, the swish of life, of infinity drawn complete. Tell me my dear, you don't feel it too. Tell me what swirls is not your heart and what moves is not the earth but of a soul shimmering in reflection.
__________

Here is the first version simplified from the original. Almost went with it for it seems to fit the sense of dining at night and I like the blues as they reflect the eyes. I better stop before I change my mind. :-D

728. Outtake #10 Morning Light

When the night was over and Rog and Yul, Von too, had returned to their rooms, she sat next to him, head on his shoulder watching the kaleidoscope of dawn, of mauve to pink to the fuzzy primrose yearning of day wheeling forth its light. His arm was around her shoulder and her hands in his lap and between them in the early morning, a warmth of wool held tight, of cheek on chest and the gentle beat felt of ear as much as heard.

She twirled circles on his thigh and his sighs were as rings in a pond, expanding toward shore, toward her, of her. Glasses were heard as cafe doors opened to brooms sweeping cobble clean, of placards placed by aprons still white of the day. 

727. John, Rog, Yul and a Vial

John: How does it feel to be a grandfather?

Von: Life begets life. Feels like that. And of Kyra?

John: Perhaps the same. She is handmade, of lavender with a touch of bergamot.

Von: Soothing.

John: Stimulating.

Von: A glass of amber?

John: Like old times.


Von poured, glasses clinked and again with the pouring and again with the clinking until each toast rose as candlelight into the night and tongues painted stories amongst the stars and all that was missing they decided, was Rog


John: Hey Rog, where are you?

Rog: In bed.

John: Well get your arse down here.

Rog: (Looks at Yul who can overhear the conversation) Don't think that's such a good idea.

John: What?

Rog: I said--

John: I heard what you said. Put Yullie on the phone. (Rog hands phone to Yul) Hey Yullie.

Yul: Frail you.

John: You had your chance.

Yul: Whatever. Rog ain't coming.

John: Sounds personal.

Yul: Yeah. Frail you. Rog ain't leaving this room.

John: Even if I told you I had a vial?

725. Limen

Limen, the point at which a stimulus is of sufficient intensity to generate a response 


__________


After a period of grass twirling and glances to the horizon, Kyra spoke: "What are we doing here?"

"Literally?"

"No not literally. We are lightyears from our homes, on this foreign planet, in some Janus forsaken field, mere inches between us, but it is more than that, isn't it?"

John's chest rose as if he had been holding his breath. "I--"

"It's not Cait, is it?"

"No."

"Then why are we just sitting here like two school kids?"

"Fear."

"Of what? You've kissed me before and you were married at the time. Or have you forgotten?"

"That's just it." John hesitated. 

"My Janus John, how did you ever lead men. Say it. I cannot get my hands around your imaginary imagination."

"Imaginary imagination?"

"You know what I meant."

Looking at the ground, he sighed again. "Yeah, I do."

"Tell me the fear."

"That it won't be the same."

"The kiss?"

"Everything."

"Wow."

"Wow what?"

"You sound like a little boy."

"Really."

"A little boy not ready to kiss a girl."

John smiled.

"A little boy unsure of how to kiss a girl."

"Or maybe a little girl--" Kyra stopped the sentence with her finger, upon his lips, feeling the warmth, the firmness, his breath like waves rushing and receding. John closed his eyes, her lavender scent, swirling, his head, swirling, his lips, slowly, parting, in what would become known as the second kiss, of finger and lip, a place of its own, in memory and heart and mind, of clover and sun, of bird and sky, of the river finding a way. 

724. of Cait and Fall

"Tell me about the first time, the first date?" asked Kyra.

"What do you want to know?"

"I want to get lost in your experience like a reader in a book. I want you to take me places I only imagine. I want you to give me hope, to plant seeds in my barren soil, to water my dreams."

"You don't want much."

"I believe in high expectations. And I want every detail, no matter how small."

He smiled. "Is this for you or for me?"

"John, I can't help you and I would never try to manipulate your heart. Love doesn't work that way. It is, as Papa would say, a force beyond the machinations of man. To be plain, as cold as I may seem at times, I ache to know things I may never know, to think that they may be possible, to keep the small ember alive, if only for the many cold nights I spend alone. There is a warmth to memory, to hope, to dreams."

"Well, I suppose like all things, the first of anything retains a vividness out of proportion to the event, almost a timelessness as if hermetically sealed, where colors never fade and sounds remain as dulcet as they were, even if they never were in the first place. And you remember everything and everything is forever changed, touched, influenced."

"Such as?"

"Such as Fall."

"Explain."

"As in the season. Our first date was in the Fall, a glorious day of autumn come, the landscape bursting of summer passed, a kaleidoscope of orange and yellow and red. Leaves scampered to final resting places with the breeze of winter to come, almost giggling, the way school children giggle, the way I felt the first time we held hands and I felt her fingers curl into mine, slowly, firmly. Her hands were white and her nails a light shade of pink and I couldn't tell if the sparkle was in the polish or just in my mind for everything seemed brighter that night. She wore a baby blue sweater, soft as lamb's wool; and upon her shoulders, her golden hair came down like waves, my heart the shore and as the shore, I was helpless not to be taken, wave after wave." John sighed. "Ariel has her primrose hair. And her blue eyes."

"I know."

"Yeah."

"Please continue."

"Fall was, is, has never been the same. She is there, always with the first cool breeze of autumn, the first turning of leaf. I see her smile, the way she walked when she didn't know I was looking, the way she sat next to me the first time we sat together and I felt the warmth of her leg press into mine and her hand tighten around my fingers. I suppose if there is any comfort in space, we have no seasons and therefore no cause to remember what now--"

Kyra reached over and placed her hand on his. "You don't have to say anymore. I had no right to ask."

"Give me a moment. I want to remember. Besides, talking to one's self in the mirror gets old."

__________

"You know this is uncomfortable," said John.

"I didn't mean--"

"But you know why it is uncomfortable, right?"

"The memory of a loved one taken."

"Nope."

"Then what?"

John laughed. "The mixing of what should not be mixed."

"Oh."

723. trembled of memory

"How did you meet Cait?" asked Kyra.

"One day, she was there. At the academy. And I knew. From the first glance. With not a word or a hand held between us, I knew."

"Tell me."

"Not sure how to explain it. She was younger than I, never even looked my way, or so she said later, but I knew. From the way she walked, the curve of her cheek, the motion of her hand in making a point, eyes so dreamy they seemed not real. Demure in an educated, graceful way. An intelligence beyond her years, but more than that, she had a strength of character that always made me feel just a little lacking. I had all the honors, all the awards. But I knew she was the stronger, as I know Ariel too, is the stronger."

"But how did you know?"

"I don't know. Some sort of intuition, a whisper of fate, a chemical reaction that enters the eye and threatens to explode the heart, a sense of falling, not in love, but falling in life, into life--"

"Into life? What does that mean?"

"I'm trying to avoid all the usual clichés. But I'll say this. My life has always been divided in two. Before and after. Life before Cait was faded in discipline, honor, duty. Results boy my dad would always say; and so that was my life, exceling, on every level. And I did, although my father would never give me the pleasure of my accomplishments, assuming, of course, he was around to celebrate them."

"And after?"

"Nothing was ever faded again. Life was never the same. As if I could see things I could never see before, feel things never felt before and a future came forth, with Cait, of us, that changed everything. The feeling was of a foundation under my feet that made everything meaningful, significant, and the accomplishments, well, let's just say that with Cait, there was a grounding, a widening of perspective and life went from pencil to pen, from grey to any hue and color one could imagine. Even crimson."

The conversation stopped with blurry eyes and cheeks that trembled of memory, of loss, of what was and of what would never be again.

After some time, Kyra spoke. "Still want to kiss me?"

"Would you be upset if I said no?"

"I'd be honored."

"Honored?"

"One never mixes two women."

"Really? Another Papaism?"

"Nope. A Kyraism."

721. like ice

She came of black boot across damp clover, her melanic hair a waterfall of shade across his face. Moved not of word, she took bandage to hand and lip to purse and eye to brim. And he watched the winding of gauze, his hands those of a boxer, bloodied as cardinals upon the snowy mitts.

"You know," said Kyra, "you have a remarkable daughter."

"I know."

"She loves you very much."

"I know."

"Although she won't say it, she needs you."

"Did she tell you that?"

"We are all water to ice John."

John smiled. "You gonna tell me what that means?"

"A Papaism."

"A what?"

"One of Papa's sayings. Same message as Yellow. You see, whatever ice touches, it influences."

"I see . . ."

"But it is more than that. You see, ice doesn't just influence. It gives, wholly, of itself."

John sighed.

"I not preaching.

"Kiss me."

"No."

"Kiss me," repeated John.

"I like the heat . . . and, well, right now, you're like ice."

720. of open wounds

Hands bloodied, he sat, the handle of the hammer growing darker in the dying and he wondered of their death, those red blood cells forced from his hands and he wondered of Tom, of the lash, of his son, forced to watch.

To the sun or the river, in either direction, pain. The sun burrowed rays in his forehead and his pulpy hands ached in the stitching of lacerations, but everywhere, pain. There was a breeze. It stung like bees, a howling of open wound, company perhaps, for the wounds not seen, not healed, forever unknown by any other than he who carries the burden in a pair of shoes made for one. 

Out here, under the sun, among eddies of breeze and the scent of hued whores of petal and leaf, was the peace of pain not judged, of wounds allowed to flow, as the river, without question. And he thought that maybe, if he could just stay here, in the blistering heat, of sweat and blood and wood and nail, of thought layering thought, that maybe time could erode the edges of his memory, bring some ablution unseen, as his pain, unseen, as his vision these last two years, unseen. 

But he knew better. And they would come and he would go and nothing would be changed.

Extended commentary (and a reading)

719. nails of no regard

And to the sun, silver rose, returning with report, the crack of lightning in a blue sky. Sweat poured from angry muscle red of surge and wood warmed in hands known of life given and death taken. Into this sapphire sky his fist rose, blooming an energy of darkness known not of man or earth. And again, what rose, fell, and what was heard echoed on the wind like distant thunder. And try as he might, as he did, as his breath ran like steam and his chest boiled of iron heated, the memory could not be purged or expunged or beaten into submission. Still, to hammer under a wilting sun nails of no regard, fences of no keep, felt good, good in the way of labor, and sweat, the kind no man pauses, no man questions.

716. sketches of John

No one was coming.

No voices. Or apparitions. Just the silence of ship and space, of a metal shell vacated of pods. Seeds upon the world below. (. . . pods seeding the world below.)

With a shift of weight, of palm to chin and eyes that hung loose in baggy sockets, the sound of leather, of chair, boot, pant. Nothing more. Not even the tick of clock. (inspiration here from the movie Bright Star--the scene where Mr Brown is in the study watching Ms Brawne outside and there is no soundtrack, no score, just the sound of his moving in his chair)

Thought could flow, as it did in loop, and the movie could play, as it did, day and night, week upon week, stacked in years. Still, he knew.

No one was coming.

712. of rope and wind

John sat in his quarters starring at the marble of Arc'teryx, spinning blues and greens, of life living, breathing as dawn and dusk, rain and shine. More than two years had passed since he turned that corner, since his eyes had met Cait's, and forever, forever that singular drop of blood fell, as it had a thousand time since, as it would a thousand times more. In the drop her life passed, without ceremony, not to his hands or lips, but to the ground, the sacred to the profane, and what gleamed of steal in her attackers hands was as lightning to his heart, her eyes wide, not in the begging, for the moment was passed begging, but wide in the violation, shared. To bear her rape and murder she could. To share that burden, as now, to know in the last moment, the last thought, that her pain would now live, live in him, in his mind and memory, live a thousand days time a thousand days . . .

He stood. Walked. As if in the walking, the movement, he could escape what could not be run from, could not be evaded or avoided, but there was something in the trying, something in doing, some thing other than the morass of memory, of thought, of the infinite loop of a memory, two years hence, clear as yesterday. And somewhere down below, somewhere on that glorious planet was Ariel. And Kyra. And he wondered where they were. What they were doing. Of their conversation and whether they walked hand in hand or side by side. A tether, these thoughts, these thoughts of a future, of Ariel, of Kyra. A future that needed, demanded he let go.

The mornings were still the worst. The shaking uncontrollable. As if his body, his trained, lean, lithe body was no longer his, chained as it were, to the lash of memory, of pearls and blood, of it all being his fault, to put her in danger, to live the life of glory and consequence. And for what? To what end? The nights were not so bad. Sleep came as a reprieve, as that moment when there was nothing left to do. But the mornings were another matter. For in the morning, the day sat, waiting, for action, waiting for motion, just waiting. And with the waiting, came the weight. And the shaking.

These vivid memories were as rope, anchored in the past, as rope around his neck, anchored in that singular vision of Cait, bent, violated, bloody above and below, taken of steel and shaft, impaled in malice, hatred, a brutality that takes what cannot be given back, but can only be released, as flowers in a river, carried someplace other than from the hand of the releaser, this parting of living and dead, of what breathes and only what now fades.

689. toys and things

Ariel gathered her toys. She did not talk; did not hum. In a line she placed them from smallest to largest, and where the skirt of a doll needed straightening, she straighten it. Nothing that was not a toy was present. When finished she stood before the line and with finger outstretched, counted left to right and then right to left, her eyes moving between objects deliberately. Then she took her hands and held them such to bookend the line, such that all was between them, such to hold the view in her hands. When this was done and only when done, done like the last word written, done like the turning of the back, she called for her father; not loudly, not with the comm but as if he were just a few feet away. Her face held no expression. She stood not unlike the dolls that sat; and when John arrived, this is what he saw and for the longest time, standing just inside the door, he watched.

663.Round the Horn III

Yul exhaled as the setting sun. Rog inhaled as the rising dawn. Lips touching, parted, just breathing each other before the wonders of the cosmos of sheets warmer than before. Eyes shut as curtains before the stage of imagination, tongues playing as actors, darting to and fro, moving slow and quick, a touching of intent, a gliding beyond, beyond content. Sighs taken, sighs stolen, fingers searching, pulling hair as reins as necks bulged in sinewy shadows, lithe in desire, curved in reach. Hands spoke and fingers travelled, exploring nooks as scholar upon books as eyes followed lips in looks upon dives took; and taken.

Mairi cried the cry of frozen tears heard, not seen. Her face as stone in the rain. Her mind made up.

Kyra and Ariel danced in the light of the next life, master and apprentice, walking on rainbows, floating on clouds, kissing the sun with their eyes and tickling the stars with their toes. What had been given was to be given and so give it was with a natural joy, free as the breeze in the trees.

Von held his grandson. A name to give she had said. A son's wish she added. He beamed as a grandfather, holding lineage, holding a past and a future. His smile grew and Zoe smiled the smile of happiness shared, of a journey travelled to a successful conclusion.

Trev and Em, two cups of snizzle, one sheet of paper and eyes that said read. He didn't need to be asked twice. She found the spot between shoulder and chest, a nook to hear the heart she loved. He read as if floating, as if an audience of angels sat the seats of plush.

John leaned over the lave, door locked. The mornings were still hard. The memory still vivid. The pain almost unbearable. She was gone from sight, gone from touch.

653. An Open Hand

"Dad?" asked Ariel, standing beside him before the floor to ceiling grand conference window, watching the wonder of the cosmos silently slip by.

"Yes?"

"I love you."

John put his arm around her shoulder. "I love you too."

"Good."

"Good?" Laughed John.

"Yeah, because if you didn't, me and mom were going to kick your hide."

John knelt, eyes on her level. "Well, you tell mom I love her too."

"She knows."

"Is that right?"

"Yep, I told her you did and she said she already knew. And you know what else?"

"What?"

"She said love doesn't hold. Love is an open hand. She said to tell you that."

"Next time you talk to mom, you tell her--"

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"If you squeeze me any tighter, I won't be able to tell her anything."

639. My Humble Plea

ed note: another first in the story--the chapter below is in alternating verse (Kyra speaks first, then John) and uses an alternating rhyme structure, giving each character a unique voice, so to speak. John has made his decision as to whether he and Ariel will stay or go (with Bravo)--Enjoy.


Have you a decision made
I ask if only
hope should fade

I have, I have
a decision prayed
and just this morn, I did made

Pray tell my friend
this decision made
Judge not I, to pretend

My daughter, Ariel
as you know
needs a place, in order to grow

Of course I know
the child is first
seeds to sow, upon the row

Yes, this is true
I have no doubt
nor no need, for me to shout

No need to explain
my dear friend
my heart is not in pain

Quite the contrary
my kiss in a bubble
but I must explain, to keep from trouble

I am afraid
I do not understand
nothing here have you played

Yes, yes, you are right
for the girl I asked
carries upon her visage, no mask

She is a treasure
apple of our eye
how else to measure

Well, your treasure
I am here to say
has told me, she wants to stay

Stay, stay you say
how could you
with so many words, delay

Delay my dear
would take intent
and that certainly, would I repent

Might you may
on bended knee
my heart you lay, on silver tray

Then bended knee
it shall be
I pray you accept, my humble plea

586. One

Into the backseat John tucked Kyra and her heavy lidded eyes. Ariel spooned into her belly, gently pulling Kyra's arms around her, a cocoon of community. Em leaned against them both. The three as kittens in a winter barn, bound by warmth, a common bond, a shared humanity beyond age or race, Hynerian and Kulmyk, together, one.

John looked behind catching one set of eyes, wide, smiling the smile of usefulness, purpose, significance. She caught his eye and in the look, father and daughter, a family, a home, a corner turned. Blond hair in a black cloak, day rising from night, convent pure, the black and white of truth not parsed, the oneness that could not be cleaved, divided, boxed or labeled. The mornings would be different now. The dawn rising breathed the transcended wind of hope.

585. Amaranthine Loyal

Kyra sat, well, actually curled more than sat, curled like a doodlebug, her cloak a shield, holding warmth within and the cold at bay. She curled not by mind but rather by design, by instinct, a sense of circling the wagons, of protecting the organs, of warmth involuting to warmth, and the thought, the thought of the comfort of fetus, of knees pulled into belly, of being covered and sustained, protected and supported, of sound muted and colors faded, all of it felt like a return, a coming home, a place safe, a place where language was left at the door and communication was known by other means.

She listened, voices familiar, warm drunk, eyes closed, tired. Her mind moved, slowly, her body, not so much. A disconnect, it felt, mind and body, one no longer in command of the other, a rebellion, a mutiny, or, perhaps, just a tiredness, a numbness to engage, to participate. Anger not, more apathy it felt, jellyfish like, a floating, boneless, a gentle lapping, shore blurry, shapes indistinct.

Still they talked, spoke, tone given and tone taken, back and forth. Matters discussed, thrown and caught and thrown back and caught and so it went, purpose unknown. She could have cared less and pondered the less in the caring, tasted it, twirled it around her mouth as hard candy, strange, the feeling, not what mom usually served. More words came, knocked and were not so much turned away as ignored, but not so much ignored as not understood. Images of standing at a window, looking out, a neighborhood child is knocking on the door, they want to play, reaching out, seeking connection and, she, just standing, watching from her window, wanting to answer the door but her feet wouldn't move, watching, they knock again, look around, then leave. She watches them go and the feeling is empty and expansive, creamy and suffocating, an odd sense of melting and drowning, not of water, not in water.

He comes, John. His large eyes, glassed with concern, sparkling in worry, say what cannot be said. His hands, strong, virile, masculine in the sense of male, male beyond gender, but male in archetype, male in fit, the square peg to her square need. They, his hands, pull her cloak taut; and, with care, fit button to loop from bottom to top, stopping to survey, as his doctor's eyes must have surveyed many times before, a look of mind racing, holding back forthrightness, replacing it with wardship.

Ariel, primrose hair coruscating in the light of the fount, stood by his side, watching as children watch, with their heart, amaranthine loyal. Her azuline eyes, deep as the watchet sky, blinked not, nor did they wavier. She held the hem of Kyra's cloak as her father lifted, her small pale fingers all the more white for the grip, holding tight without obligation, without exchange, without ledger or want or need. She held for in the holding was not skin and bone or motive or artifice, but the expression of all that is, all that was, all that would to be.

This, and not any other writ or wrote, is how it was. This was Bravo. This was Papa. This was the universal lesson taught on beach and danced on deck, delivered in smiles and wrapped in hugs.

584. The Math

"If we don't get off this planet now, she won't be the only one in a better place," said John.

"What are you talking about?" asked Von.

"It's the planet. Polaris. We were suppose to be here months ago."

"What?"

"The air. Doesn't agree with female hynerians. Nothing wrong with me or you or Trev or Rog. We weren't targeted. She was." John looked at Kyra, huddled in a pew. "Zoe, Em and Yul are just collateral damage."

"I take it you have a cure?"

"There is no cure."

"I don't believe it. There is--"

"I'm not asking you to believe it. I'm telling you."

"So they die?"

"I didn't say that."

"So?"

"We've got to get them off planet."

"And Zoe?"

"What about Zoe?"

"You think I'm just going to leave?"

"I thought you said she was in a better place?"

"Better, not best."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I'm not going anywhere without her."

John looks around. "Well, where is she?"

"Hellocks, if I knew that you think I'd be standing here?"

"Look, if we stay, they all die."

Von looked at Kyra.

"Don't go there," said John.

"It's true."

"What's true is the math."

"Math my arse. Explain to me where math is in the heart?"

John looked dumbfounded. "I don't have time for this. You coming or not?"