six-two-oeight

KS complained that I wrote his name on his journal.  Understand, the journal I gave to him in September is battle-weary.  Torn and scribbled upon, it has lost its cover.  It has become what it was meant to be, though.  It doesn't even need to be read to tell his story.  The new journal got its first wounds the second day.  It, too, betrayed KS, its proud, clean title announcing that it could show you pieces of him.  Poor journal.  It must be martyred like the others to tell the story.

PB made a discovery.  "It's hard to be a lady."  What he actually meant was that it was hard to walk with your feet halfway into your shoes, your heels perched on the backs.  What he actually meant was that he, a male, could not understand.  Little does he know-- this is only the beginning.