My locks of hair held fast. My fists were tight as walnuts. I urged you not to try me, or my dog, Patience. Patience bit you, and you knew it was your own fault--a fissure down to the rocks below. I blew on the dice and rolled whether you'd live to see bottom. You did, but only for forty-five seconds. With enough skin rent, its amazing how quickly one's blood leaves the building. I said a prayer over you. I was stories and stories above. As it grew around you, the liquid outline made you seem more important. My hand, asked to run through my hair, got stuck. My hair must be too long again--or, I should comb it.