Eleven Eleven Twelve

SR. SOL— Of two things which would you choose: poor advice followed by silence or poor advice followed by talk?

ANATH— Words, Sr. Always words.

SR. SOL— With words the counselor would possess the means to justify himself.

ANATH— With silence the counselor would retain the desire to justify himself as well as the means to poison me — the badly counselled, my children on the line — with wonder.

SR. SOL— With reports the counselor could take your time, distract your ideas, provide more poorly chosen words.

ANATH— With silence I suffer the loss of energy, the indigestion of dreams, the amplification of the weight of the original ill-intentioned word.

SR. SOL— Would you rather I say sorry?

ANATH— What curious red bird is this, in the middle of a smoky garden, asking for bad advice in bad taste?

SR.SOL— This conversation! If you're looking for bad taste, listen to yourself, come on!

ANATH— What I want is for you to stand yourself on your head, butt against the wall, feet in the air, Sr. Cry in said position.

SR.SOL— Honestly—

ANATH— That your hair may also, for once, weep.

SR.SOL— Should I record? Must I upload video?

ANATH— I must never know because your contrite heart means nothing to me. The rug on the children's clinic means more to me, I nod gravely, it bids welcome.

SR.SOL— But I was certain! I even asked around. There was no malice—

ANATH— All certainty is malice, had you entertained doubt, doubt would have been amused.

SR.SOL— You will not have any evidence.

ANATH— Please forgive me for coming to you with the lungs of my daughters, asking for intelligence. Wearing my shoes on your carpet.

SR.SOL— I was really busy that day, you know. But very well, okay. Life wants to go on—

ANATH— Yes, Sr., it e-mailed me—

SR.SOL— But I don't forget easy! I live and breathe grudges, that's what you should keep in mind about me. That, and my general brilliance.