The Bruised Muse And The Butterfly
The bruised muse
Hissed soul steamed escape
Before tree finger marauders
Pierced his dried up dreams’s reedy spine
And noosed charity’s crystal cracked neck
Into a violent pearled burst
Dividing glum gold spoils
To black dog troughs
Second rate ingrates
And the hoodwinked anarchist parade
Marching through strangled forests
The bruised muse
Watches the lead hearted raiders
Clap freewheeling heels
The kinetic chaos
A ludicrous marvel of steel willed vanity
Pushing prostituted trust’s bladed menace
Through sunken wildflower weed valleys
Ousting in fist hammered defiance
The bruised muse’s spectating specter
While vampiric Judas Iscariots
Drain stained glass blood
From the muse’s broken swan neck palace
The turncoat fellowship
Gloating cloven dagger flame
Through sacred parchment
The tarry blizzard
Set to burn and forget
His bliss kissed sweet nothings
Swallowed through tongue torched surrender
To the betraying void
The frayed and dethroned king of fantasia
Exiting breathlessly
Holding onto the disintegrating wing
Of his flailing butterfly queen
As the scorching house of cards
Carries ash scarred tragedy
And lung blistered chokehold
Across a psalmist anchorage
Blackened and razed
The once harmonized sanctum
Poisoned by pride’s weighed scales
Tipped towards self anointed demigods
And so the thorn clipped muse weeps thunder
And her nailed feet mete out lightning stabs
Across night’s everlasting funeral
Though their ears are plugged tunnels
And their eyes stitched bound and blind.
Wiedersehen
In a caliginous haze, soft as winter mist,
the cry of a thylacine rises through the trees—
a ghostly wail, long gone but still stirring,
echoing over hills that know her no longer.
The forest is still, save for whispers,
believers' murmurs hanging in the air,
of a world slipping away, of shadows departing.
The quiet is a sign, some say, of separation itself:
this undoing of old things into echoes and winds.
Along the damp riverbanks, bones rest cold
beneath the weight of time,
silent underfoot in the pulse of dark soil,
their shapes blurred but long-staring,
waiting for the day when nothing remains.
A flash in the woods, a pang of memory—
there’s no farewell, only the sense of wiedersehen,
a half-formed thought, that one day we will
meet again in some untouched dusk,
where silence and song are all that’s left.
Untitled
There's a large paper mâché head
On a wide concrete platform...
In the middle of the park at night...
I'm a nervous wreck!...I'm an awful fright!...
As I'm not sure what he will say next...
I'm filled with fear...And I'm filled with dread...
There's a large paper mâché head
On a wide concrete platform...
He's drawling off his block again!...
He says his brother thinks he's nuts...
And he wonders if his wife and small group of friends
Have conspired against him ...
Like a long lost mutt
The worm inside his head's returned...
It burrows in his hollowed cheeks...
Someone left the stove...and a pan got burned...
That stink inside his head
Will reside for weeks...
There's a large paper mâché head
On a wide concrete platform...
In the middle of the park at night...
I'm a nervous wreck!...I'm an awful fright!...
As I'm not sure what he will say next...
I'm filled with fear...And I'm filled with dread...
There's a large paper mâché head
On a wide concrete platform...
When asleep they came, and played their games...
The raccoon, and the mouse...
Every sacred inch of him has been befouled!...
Like a sinner in the house of God...
...There's a singer on the veranda now...
She has lured him back from gloom...
Such a beauty with a voice so light...
Her bright lantern fills each room
With a brilliance that he's long forgot...
...He was painted in a tenacious spot!...
There's a large paper mâché head
On a wide concrete platform...
In the middle of the park at night...
I'm a nervous wreck!...I'm an awful fright!...
As I'm not sure what he will say next...
I'm filled with fear...And I'm filled with dread...
There's a large paper mâché head
On a wide concrete platform...
10/19/24
Bunny Villaire
Our savior, our highness!
(Take a look at my bio please,)
(This story has a childlike theme to it, but it's a little more darker. I don't really like it but I do want to share it for feedback or criticism.)
(If you will, enjoy!)
There once was a little highness.
The little highness lived in a little castle. A castle that was in the center of a village.
This village atmosphere was always so alive and cheerful.
But the little highness was always scared of being around their people.
This time, the little highness wanted to change. The little highness wanted to understand and feel the same way the village felt, so the little highness went to seek out and make some friends.
The little highness during their walk in a little park found a kid, standing there, lonely.
“Do you want to be friends?” The little highness asked the boy.
“Um.. ok.” Says the boy.
The little highness then went on, day after day trying arduously to play with, humor, and keep the boy around.
But the boy for some reason always seemed distant from the little highness.
The little highness typically was the one who asked the boy if they wanted to play.
The little highness typically was the one who tried to make conversations with the boy.
But the boy still seemed to stay distant, never making their presence aware for the little highness anytime the little highness tried or couldn’t find them, and sometimes even ignored the little highness.
At last, the little highness thought that maybe the boy just didn’t like them.
The little highness then became very sad.
But, the little highness also felt annoyed.
Then came the shout of the big highness, who lived in the little highness's head.
“YOU'RE JUST BORING!” Big highness shouted.
“OTHER PEOPLE CAN DO THIS BETTER THAN YOU.”
“Please stop! That can’t be true! I can’t be boring!” The little highness shouted back.
The big highness retaliated. “FINE. GO TRY TO MAKE MORE FRIENDS. I WILL PROVE YOU WRONG.”
The little highness, reluctant to agree with the big highness, decided to try again.
The little highness took a walk in the park again, and this time, found a little girl, standing there, lonely.
“Do you want to be friends?” The little highness asked.
“Well, ok.” Says the girl.
The little highness then went on for the entire afternoon, trying arduously to play with, humor, and keep the girl around.
But the next day, the girl seemed distant.
She seemed to be looking for someone else to keep her company. She seemed to be uninterested with the little highness, swaying her head from the left to the right.
And then, the little highness saw a prince walk up to her, as the girl smiled brightly, walking away with the prince.
The little highness then became very sad.
But, the little highness also felt confused.
“Why can’t I make friends well?” The little highness wondered in perplexity.
Then came the shout of the big highness who lived in the little highness’s head.
“YOU'RE JUST BORING!” the big highness shouted.
“OTHER PEOPLE CAN DO THIS BETTER THAN YOU!”
“No! That can’t be true!” The little highness yelled back, but this time with an uncertainty that made their voice tremble.
The big highness again, retaliated. “FINE. GO TRY ONE MORE TIME. AND YOU’LL SEE I'M RIGHT.”
The little highness, this time quietly replied “Okay. I will try again.”
The little highness wandered into the park one more time, and for this time, found a group of people.
“Come! Join us!” The group of people told the little highness.
The little highness delightedly joined the group of people.
But something was wrong.
The little highness then went on, still trying arduously to play with, humor, and keep the group “wanting to continue being friends with them”.
The little highness struggled to find interesting things to say.
The little highness struggled to find funny things to say.
The little highness struggled to seem relevant.
Then, the little highness seemed distant to the group, as the little highness avoided them in fear of the group not liking them already.
Then, the little highness started trying to seem uninterested when alone, which confused themself on why they were doing that.
The little highness then became very sad.
But, the little highness just sighed.
“Why am I so boring?” The little highness wondered, in disconcertment.
Then came the shout of the big highness who lived in the little highness’s head.
“YOU ARE JUST BORING!” The big highness shouted.
“YOU AREN'T INTERESTING!”
“YOU AREN’T RELEVANT!”
“YOU’RE JUST UNFUNNY!”
“NO ONE ADMIRES YOU!”
“DON’T EVEN BLAME THE GIRL WHO LEFT YOU!”
“OTHER PEOPLE CAN DO THIS BETTER THAN YOU!”
“Please stop! No more! I don’t want to hear it anymore! I want to be funny!” The little highness yelled, finally having enough.
“I want to be important! I want to be charismatic! I want to be relevant! I want to be interesting! I want to be good at this too! Why can’t I fit in with these people?”
The little highness, in frustration of themself, decided to go back into their castle, and sat there, pondering.
Day and nights have gone by, and the little highness still sat there,
Desperately trying to perceive what they're doing wrong.
Desperately trying to understand how to eradicate what they believe is their awful, irritating impairment.
And over and over, the little highness can hear big highness shouts, no matter how closely they press their hand against their ears,
desperately trying to not let big highness’s seeds of doubt grow.
One night, the little highness lays on their bed, mulling over the same things they have for the previous days.
“Why am I different from those people? Was I born like this?”
The same questions resurfacing again and again,
Until the little highness hears a voice.
“This isn't such a big deal. Stop complaining over this nonsense.” Says the voice.
“Who are you?” The little highness’s head shoots up, and asks.
“I am here. Look behind you.” The voice replied.
The little highness turned around and saw a ghost who looked just like the little highness.
“I am the ghost of this castle. You’ve been blabbering over and over about the same things for such a while. Isn’t it tiring?” The ghost questioned, as the translucent being floated in front of the little highness.
“It is but,” Says the little highness “I won’t leave the castle until I figure out the remedy to this ailment. I won’t!”
The ghost smirks, then hovers closer to the little highness.
“I can help you.” The ghost says. “All you have to do is follow me.”
“...Can you really?” Asks the little highness in suspicion.
“Only if you want me to. You don’t want to continue pondering, do you? Maybe you’ll never get your answer. On your own, atleast.”
The little highness fixated on the ghost. It's true, they didn’t want to stay here in the castle, lonely and contemplating on why they are. Big highness has stated something like this too: what if they were always bound to be alone, no matter how much they thought. No matter how hard they tried to think of ways to keep people around. No, not even if all the stars far above the castle roofs aligned and formed an illuminating celestial symphony, would they ever fit in?
So the little highness finally got up, and decided to follow the ghost, hoping for their answer to be in reach.
The ghost led the little highness up the castle’s long spiral of stairs, finally stopping at the top balcony.
“Look down at the village.” The ghost says.
“This village is beautiful isn’t it? Look at the very peaceful people of the village sleeping soundly.”
The little highness looks out over the village under the dark sky, breathing in the chilly air, and taking in the calmness of the night.
“But how do I become better now?” Asked the little highness.
“Look down there. There will be a big fire that will emerge right now.” Says the ghost.
The little highness’s eyes widened and swung their head towards a cottage down below in the distance.
Then, a bright light shined, and suddenly booms, throwing the cottage into a chaos of flames.
The little highness’s expression turns into one of dismay as they oversee the fire quickly spreading.
“Oh.. no! We must do something!” The little highness shouts frantically.
But before the little highness could think to dash out, the ghost stretched their hand out before the little highness, as the little highness turned around facing the ghost, back against the railing of the balcony.
“What are you doing?” The little highness asks, confuzzled as their heart pounds in urgency.
“This is what you wanted.” The ghost answers.
“What do you mean? I don’t know what you’re… what are you trying to do?” The little highness asks the ghost, as their eyes flicker between the ghost’s eyes and the ghost’s hand.
“You want to be interesting. You want to be important. You want to be liked. You want people to be swarming around you. You want to be amusing.” The ghost says slowly.
“You want to be all sorts of things. The way you were eager to make friends.. You want people to feel the same eagerness with you.”
“Please.. What is going on, ghost!” The little highness shouts in terror as the people of the village awaken and
begin to holler.
“Little highness.” The ghost starts, staring calmly at the little highness, almost as if in reassurance.
“I will push you from this balcony and you will fall. After your body hits the gravel ground, your soul will turn into a cloud. A rain cloud. A rain cloud that will disperse all the fire and save your people. You wanted to be admired, recognized, liked, and you will be remembered. You will be all those things, people will praise you for saving them. People will marvel at the sight of your graceful rain drops. And people will bury your body, remembering your bravery.”
The little highness stood there in silence but trembling, as the little highness stared at the ghost, listening to their words carefully.
Then, the little highness finally speaks.
“I’ll be liked.. I'll be admired...the rain?”
“Yes.” The ghost replied, slowly enclosing the gap between its hands and the little highness’s head.
“Be the rain. The beautiful, glistening rain, and their savior. Rain on the people and the people’s admiration and gratefulness will be shown, it will blossom so brightly it will illuminate even the darkest of skies. Even brighter than that fire. You are no longer irrelevant as you are their savior. You are no longer unamusing as they will gleefully smile and laugh when they see the sight of your cloud. You are no longer boring, as your rain will give birth to the beautifulest of floras across the village. Rain down your water, and their love will rain on you. And no one can do that, better than you.”
“Why do...” Says the little highness.
But before the little highness could finish, the ghost pushed them off the balcony.
“You must save them quickly. And now, I have fulfilled my promise!” Says the ghost.
“Now, you’re just right, just right highness.”
The little highness was falling. And falling. It seemed like the little highness would fall forever.
But before the little highness hit the ground, they thought.
“Why… Do I have to sacrifice my body, a part of me, to be liked? To finally be.. amusing? To finally be important to people? To be just right? No, I don’t want to… I want to be liked for the little highness I am now!”
The little highness body hits the ground below with a thud, the noise shattering in the background of the flame’s crackle sound and the hollering in the night.
As the little highness’s body lies below, a faint, wispy cloud begins to rise from it. The cloud grows bigger and bigger darkening as it blocks out the light of the moon. Thunder rumbles in the distance,
and the first drops of rain begin to fall.
There, up in the dark sky, you’ll find the “just right” highness. Their highness in the sky, serving as a rain cloud as dignified as its own drops, and as dark as its embodiment.
The Price of Revolution
The rain fell in heavy sheets, pounding the cobblestone streets with a relentless fury. I stood at the edge of the city square, hidden in the shadows cast by the towering buildings. My eyes locked onto the figure standing in the centre—the so-called hero of this tale, bathed in the soft glow of a streetlight. His armour gleamed with the promise of justice, and his sword hung at his side, waiting for the moment he would draw it against me. He didn’t know it yet, but this was the endgame.
For both of us.
People always speak of heroes and villains as if they are roles assigned at birth, as if some are born with the light inside them while others are forever consumed by the dark. But that’s not the truth. It never has been. You see, I was once the hero of this story, too. I fought for what was right, stood for justice, saved lives. But somewhere along the way, I made a choice. I chose to become the villain.
And I did so willingly.
I stepped forward into the light, my boots splashing in the puddles below, each step echoing in the silence of the night. The hero's gaze snapped toward me, his hand hovering near his sword, but he didn’t move. Not yet.
“Why?” His voice was steady, but I could hear the confusion, the disbelief. He still couldn’t understand why I had turned my back on everything we once stood for.
I smiled, though there was no warmth in it. “Because I had to.”
He frowned, taking a step toward me. “Had to? You didn’t have to do anything! You chose this! You betrayed us!”
Ah, betrayal. It always comes down to betrayal in stories like this, doesn’t it? But there was no betrayal. Not really.
“You’re right,” I said calmly. “I did choose this. But not for the reasons you think.”
His hand gripped the hilt of his sword now, but still he hesitated, as if waiting for an explanation that would make sense of it all. I suppose I owed him that much.
“I was once like you,” I began, my voice low and measured. “I believed in justice, in fighting for the greater good. I believed that we were saving the world. But then I saw it—what we were really doing. We weren’t saving anyone. We were keeping the balance, yes, but only by making sure the cycle of suffering never ended.”
The hero’s brow furrowed, his confusion deepening. “What are you talking about?”
I let out a soft laugh, but it was filled with bitterness. “Don’t you see? Every time we saved the day, we only prolonged the suffering of the people we were trying to protect. The enemies we defeated—new ones would always rise in their place. The people we saved—they would suffer again, whether from famine, war, or sickness. And we, the so-called heroes, were nothing but tools to maintain this broken world. We kept the system alive.”
His sword was out now, gleaming in the pale light. “So what? You think you’re better than the system? You think you can change it by becoming a monster?”
“I think I can end it,” I said coldly.
That was the truth of it. I had realized that the only way to truly break the cycle was to destroy everything. To burn it all down and let something new rise from the ashes. Yes, I had made myself the villain—because only a villain could destroy the world. Only a villain could do what needed to be done.
“I didn’t want this,” I continued, taking another step forward. “But you and I both know that heroes can’t change the world. They can only preserve it.”
His face was pale now, the weight of my words sinking in. He didn’t want to believe it. Of course, he didn’t. That was the curse of heroes—they always believed there was a better way, even when the world showed them over and over again that there wasn’t.
“You’re wrong,” he whispered, shaking his head. “There’s always another way.”
“No,” I said softly, “there isn’t.”
I moved faster than he expected. My blade was in my hand before he could react, and it was over in seconds. His sword clattered to the ground as he fell to his knees, blood pooling around him. His eyes were wide with shock, staring up at me as if he still couldn’t understand.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and for a moment, I meant it. “But this is the only way.”
As he collapsed, the rain washing away the blood, I stood there, alone in the dark, my heart heavy but resolute.
I was the villain.
Because I had made myself one.
And I would end the world, even if it meant damning myself in the process.
Hey thank you all for reading! I want to apologies for not posting more of my writing but I assure you I have a lot more I intend to release, just going to measure it out so I don't run out if my motivation hits a dry spell. But as always, any feedback is more then welcome!
The Price of Revolution
The rain fell in heavy sheets, pounding the cobblestone streets with a relentless fury. I stood at the edge of the city square, hidden in the shadows cast by the towering buildings. My eyes locked onto the figure standing in the centre—the so-called hero of this tale, bathed in the soft glow of a streetlight. His armour gleamed with the promise of justice, and his sword hung at his side, waiting for the moment he would draw it against me. He didn’t know it yet, but this was the endgame.
For both of us.
People always speak of heroes and villains as if they are roles assigned at birth, as if some are born with the light inside them while others are forever consumed by the dark. But that’s not the truth. It never has been. You see, I was once the hero of this story, too. I fought for what was right, stood for justice, saved lives. But somewhere along the way, I made a choice. I chose to become the villain.
And I did so willingly.
I stepped forward into the light, my boots splashing in the puddles below, each step echoing in the silence of the night. The hero's gaze snapped toward me, his hand hovering near his sword, but he didn’t move. Not yet.
“Why?” His voice was steady, but I could hear the confusion, the disbelief. He still couldn’t understand why I had turned my back on everything we once stood for.
I smiled, though there was no warmth in it. “Because I had to.”
He frowned, taking a step toward me. “Had to? You didn’t have to do anything! You chose this! You betrayed us!”
Ah, betrayal. It always comes down to betrayal in stories like this, doesn’t it? But there was no betrayal. Not really.
“You’re right,” I said calmly. “I did choose this. But not for the reasons you think.”
His hand gripped the hilt of his sword now, but still he hesitated, as if waiting for an explanation that would make sense of it all. I suppose I owed him that much.
“I was once like you,” I began, my voice low and measured. “I believed in justice, in fighting for the greater good. I believed that we were saving the world. But then I saw it—what we were really doing. We weren’t saving anyone. We were keeping the balance, yes, but only by making sure the cycle of suffering never ended.”
The hero’s brow furrowed, his confusion deepening. “What are you talking about?”
I let out a soft laugh, but it was filled with bitterness. “Don’t you see? Every time we saved the day, we only prolonged the suffering of the people we were trying to protect. The enemies we defeated—new ones would always rise in their place. The people we saved—they would suffer again, whether from famine, war, or sickness. And we, the so-called heroes, were nothing but tools to maintain this broken world. We kept the system alive.”
His sword was out now, gleaming in the pale light. “So what? You think you’re better than the system? You think you can change it by becoming a monster?”
“I think I can end it,” I said coldly.
That was the truth of it. I had realized that the only way to truly break the cycle was to destroy everything. To burn it all down and let something new rise from the ashes. Yes, I had made myself the villain—because only a villain could destroy the world. Only a villain could do what needed to be done.
“I didn’t want this,” I continued, taking another step forward. “But you and I both know that heroes can’t change the world. They can only preserve it.”
His face was pale now, the weight of my words sinking in. He didn’t want to believe it. Of course, he didn’t. That was the curse of heroes—they always believed there was a better way, even when the world showed them over and over again that there wasn’t.
“You’re wrong,” he whispered, shaking his head. “There’s always another way.”
“No,” I said softly, “there isn’t.”
I moved faster than he expected. My blade was in my hand before he could react, and it was over in seconds. His sword clattered to the ground as he fell to his knees, blood pooling around him. His eyes were wide with shock, staring up at me as if he still couldn’t understand.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and for a moment, I meant it. “But this is the only way.”
As he collapsed, the rain washing away the blood, I stood there, alone in the dark, my heart heavy but resolute.
I was the villain.
Because I had made myself one.
And I would end the world, even if it meant damning myself in the process.
Hey thank you all for reading! I want to apologies for not posting more of my writing but I assure you I have a lot more I intend to release, just going to measure it out so I don't run out if my motivation hits a dry spell. But as always, any feedback is more then welcome!
Her blood, soft. (audio link below the words)
Chapter 38
Out of the quarter. No feeling of change as it had been, the stranger,
when they had passed the café, the lights were off in back.
No feeling of change.
What that did mean, the seams blending for those to enter.
One of the last lines written to make way for the quarter to become
what it would. The work of them.
This, out of his thoughts, for Aria alone.
His mind for her tonight, only for her.
Where she would be the time after the next dusk, he would only
hold on to hope.
Up the street, her hand in his. The beauty of the city.
Love shining down.
Into pubs, into the cafés.
Live music of the free.
A thought from her, while they listened to the saxophone of a man
to play. The quarter, a change. Passing the tattoo shop, the only one
she would go, one artist inside. Boarded up now, dark. When they had
walked past. Her thoughts, further back in the quarter. The floor of the
building, their floor. They were the only two on it. The rest of the
tenants below. The quiet of them.
In the room, the sounds of music. Out the windows, a filter for neon.
His kiss to her neck. The applause between songs.
The people in the room. She had not seen them in the quarter. They
lived in the true city, graced by chance to not know the pull of the
quarter. Her mind, understanding more from the body of the stranger.
Pieces of mystery, they floated upon strings in the night. Her man, a
man she would kill to die for, the crescendo of song on the stage before
them. His hand holding the two of hers.
The love between them, strong
throughout time.
When the stranger thought of this. Something inside to take him
deep down into the past, into the changing of heart at the table.
It creeped upon him there, held his heart.
Encased in her stomach, what he would feel under the night. The
stars above. A celebration of swirls, the love from there.
Come what would, between death and the time before it.
What he had with her, the time from their first night alone to what
was waiting after the dusk of tomorrow.
Aria, her long ghost. From a hole in a door, he had waited for her,
to let her know who she was for the time fixed ahead.
He was successful in the dream of it.
Her hands in his, what he saw.
Something he would know and she would not believe.
What the quarter had done to her. How it had moved in, through
her skin. What he knew from their first drink outside the quarter, in
the place across. The table by the window.
To understand the lengths of what the quarter had done to her,
blocked from him. If she would go west, he knew their time together
had meant as much as the love from soil to the space above, the swirls
of dust and dream.
---From The Velocity of Ink. I read from it this morning for my channel, if you want to listen. This is just a small part of this morning's session.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8O5H15bsUGg&t=1354s
Peanut Butter and Jealousy: 1 Lunchables 13, 1-16
"For you shall worship no other god, for the Lord, whose name is Jealous, is a jealous God (Exodus 34:14).
"Some psychiatrists say that people who eat peanut butter sandwiches are lonely...I guess they're right. And when you're really lonely, the peanut butter sticks to the roof of your mouth." (Clark Gesner, You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown)
1 If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have peanut butter, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.
2 If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have jelly, I am nothing.
3 If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not trade my lunch, I gain nothing.
4 God is love, but love is jelly. God is omnipotent, but peanut butter is all-sticking.
5 Love is sticky, and it sticks to the roof of your mouth and remains long past the digestion of the jelly.
6 Protein and sugars are the nutrition of love.
7 Love does not delight in tartness but rejoices with the pasty reminders hours later from your teeth. It always sticks, always sweetens, always comes in brown paper bags, and always perseveres as fair barter at lunchtime.
8 Love never fails. But the prophecies they will cease; where the tongues smack and cannot be unstuck; where there is knowledge good and evil, and these are PBJ and broccoli, respectively. Verily, vegetables will pass away.
9 For we know in part and we prophesy in part,
10 but when the alchemy of peanuts and grapes come together, the separateness of them disappears.
11 When I was a child, I ate like a child, I tasted like a child, I digested like a child. When I became a man, I couldn't put the ways of childhood behind me.
12 Yet, now we must watch our waistlines. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.
13 And now these three remain: proteins, fats, and starches. But the greatest of these is the love for the sticky and the sweet.
14 And fear not! For there is Jardiance.
15 And the Lord saw that it was good.
16 Like peanut butter and jealousy.