She wandered to the marketin a flowery dress and bowthe man she thought was dead appearedwith a fine new girl in tow.
A little down and lifeless nowinstead she sought to findsome sympathy in fictiona writer with her mind. 
A man was here and there and therea mission to be hadand in one scene one second longa girl appeared—quite mad. 
And with sympathy the audience laughedat the man’s forgetting ofthe flowery former-lover-girlasking how he was.
And then the scene was finished and the man then saved the worldand no one really knew the name of the former lover girl. 
Seeking a new ending nowwanting the final wordshe found the dead man walkingand this is what we heard:
 “I cannot believe your nerve!How could you be so cruel?Did you think that I deservedto be treated like a fool?”
“Yes, I do, and I’m awarethat I was cruel and quite unfairbut, my girl, you should bewaresirs like me, we aren’t fairwe aren’t rarewe’re justthere—we’re everywherein novels, films, there’s no compareto the burden we do bear:to operate without a careto sleep so sound while you despairit’s exhaustingbut to usit’s fair.We do not have the time to spareto watch our words to you with carewasting time on this impairsour ability to—
we just don’t care. In ‘love’ and warall is fair.So by the Lord, my girl, I swearthis truly is your fault.”  By Caitlin S. Ouano(c) November 2016