I observed the little things: the swaying of scarves, the king    of hearts' clever suicide attempt, a slowly decaying corpse    sprinkled with shotgun shells and that "alive" look gleaming in    its eyes. The distinction between truth and tale exists in the    most crucial of times and explodes like a wine cork getting    shot into the night, disappearing under stars and blood while    exaggerated through war stories and battle wounds. In    retrospect, we dwell on childhood memories while a rain of    white lies and battle cries create the stage. The last name is    embarrassment preceded closely by reliable. The mind    seems to outrun the body and the closeness between me and    you is ironically the same as the distant from New York to    Duxbury. Shake it up.