The House of Flora

Rue,

 I'm writing you from the terminal. I'll pick up where we last left off. 

--But don't you see? Silence has too long been considered "golden." So often, silence [like the underbelly of a slimy, reptilian coward] is yellow. When silence is yellow, the earth is never redeemed by the broad-shouldered justice that she desperately cries out for. When no one strengthens their backbone, or sharpens their knives in an attempt to defend the helpless, when no one feels compelled to bandage the sores of the wounded--faith no longer flourishes in the bones of the waiting. The innocent of the world cry out for peace and salvation, but there is only wreckage...battering that could be ended by the reverberation of one still, small voice. And when the seasons wilt away and hope slides down from the tall back of death, I have to wonder whose hands the blood is on. The enemy? Or the one standing in the corner-both hands in his pockets-mouth sealed: the one who had the tools to save the many, but only chose to save his face?
                                                                                                    Nedul