Tread Lightly, for You Tread Upon My Heart

The red-necked angels are here today, re-roofing the garage and downstairs bedroom, and so, I've absented myself for most of the day, preferring to ramble the curving back roads in the minivan and watch the horses and goats and sedately-munching cows. The goats, by the by, have produced several kids, which, until the waist-high grass was cut, routinely lost themselves in the grass. They're teeny and adorable and brimming with energy, often bounding around the paddock with the unbridled fervor of the young.

So, I haven't written a jot today, and I don't know if I will, though my needling conscience says I ought, even if it's a hundred words. Part IX of Sprache is in full swing, and logic dictates that I strike while the iron is hot. In addition, my current Flack-centric piece is at eight thousand words and rising, and I'd like to finish it during the summer hiatus, before new canon bends me over the writers' room coffee table and fucks me with a dry fountain pen.

Sprache took yet another turn I hadn't anticipated, and part of me suspects it will offend a few fans. It's a relatively minor moment in the narrative, and it's probably not as disturbing as it looked and felt at first blush, but unlike most of the characters with whom I play, Richard is real, and therefore, I have fewer rights as a writer and a greater need for circumspection and care. Sure, it's unlikely that he or anyone associated with Rammstein will read it, but he could, and that possibility, however remote, makes me reticent to explore the darker human flaws that I would ordinarily explore with relish.

Conscience is such a pesky thing, and such an absolute necessity.