He awakened to a piercing honesty while driving his battlefield sedan. He spoke in stilted and jumbled syllables with buckets of um’s, speaking to one whom he loved and one who was highly critical of people who don’t speak the King’s English.

Maybe the listener wasn’t critical today, but it made the speaker’s tormented soul regretful of his honest exploration.

“I hurt, and I know I shouldn’t hurt, but regardless of my solid rationality, I can’t remove the hurt, and it sticks and sticks.”

“It takes skill.”

The road was rough. It was flying by in terrible grays and all of the light-colored automobiles were trying to strike dead our floundering speaker and his tormented soul.

“I’m working on it. I am learning that it is not always all my fault.”

The hotels and the commercial buildings rose from the high vegetation which had started to slow with the heat of June and the mop head of river waters hanging in the air.

Perhaps the honesty was worthwhile.

I’m human, kind of, he thought.

.