I like you—but is it you that I like, or is it the feeling of your liking me? What is it to like, anyhow? To liken, to ascribe adjacency along some plane, some descriptor; am I not simply fond of the adjectives you slide beneath my feet? Perhaps I enjoy tripping over my own ego, avoiding the mirror of my worst and most honest detractions. Perhaps these peels are slippery distractions, opportunities for stumbling instead of taking pains to walk more uprightly. Do you like me? To what do you liken me? Which loving and lying arrows will you sling in my direction? And why do you care to arch your bow? Do you enjoy watching me bathe lustfully in my own filth? Or do you draw on me for distraction—perhaps from your own shames and sins. A war you aim to start—one of lovely lying arrows to flood the sky with the sanguine color or any so long as we maintain it’s fog. A forever war is needed by we shameful cover-ups; forever the complimentary fawning letter from magistrate to magistrate; little do our sealed and solemn servants know—our letters are of love.