Maybe Robert Wilson was Right

"I hate you."
As matter of factly as "your boots are brown," was her tone when she said it. It was, after all, a simple matter of fact. She hated him. And though, her voice had not the slightest hint of animosity in it the firmness of her declaration proved it to him sincere.
He knew she meant it, but perplexed as he was could only mutter a half-hearted "Really?"
"Really."
"Do you want to leave?"
"That's not necessary. I'm rather enjoying this cup of coffee. And, you did go through such trouble to make it."
"Oh."
Herman Weaver was paralyzed in his wicker chair, save his right arm which from time to time robotically raised his mug to his lips. He couldn't understand. They had been friends (or rather, in light of recent events, acquaintances.) and neighbors for going on five years, and he certainly didn't hate her. In fact, they'd been seeing each other with increasing frequency as of late, and once Herman had even considered the possibility of their romantic involvement. But, only once; very early in the morning.
"Why?" exhaled Herman from his trance, breaking the silence like a vase accidentally dropped from a left hand while a right hand was dusting beneath.
"Oh, I don't know Herman. It's nothing really. To be quite honest I think I've always hated you."
Herman nodded as if in agreement. Her nonchalance clouded his thoughts like a fever, and he remembered hearing once that American women were the cruelest in the world. But, he brushed that thought quickly away; this had to be different.
"Are you sure you want to stay?"
"But, of course. I so very much appreciate you inviting me over."
Herman just nodded again. With his lips now slightly parted and his brow furrowed he had the countenance of a man trying most diligently to remember all that he was supposed to remember, and simultaneously forget all that he was supposed to forget. For the remainder of their meeting Herman uttered not a word. Though, she seemed not to mind, or even notice, and occasionally made casual comments aloud, but mostly to herself.
"I do think your window boxes look lovely, petunias were a beautiful choice," or, "This coffee really is delicious."
Herman never moved. His expression remained, his legs were uncrossed on the floor beneath the small, white table, and his eyes were locked straight ahead. He was not looking at the wall, but through it, and through the next one to tiny letters on a far away page that he could almost read, but not quite. He didn't know how long it had been since he had spoken, but it mattered little to him. It mattered little if she ever left. As far as Herman was concerned she could just stay all day making mildly observant remarks.
She finished her coffee and after a socially acceptable amount of time for an afternoon visit had passed she smiled at Herman, thanked him again for inviting her into his home, and let herself out. Herman, ever the gentleman, would normally have felt tremendous guilt over not walking a lady to the door. But, right then he simply didn't feel at all.

To Grace And Hope

We've chewed and swallowed that which we must not eat.
Upon the fall, then, should the blame for all transgressions be laid?

Driving thorns deeper still
Into our sides.

Grace and Hope, bound,
Now march bravely,
Hand in hand,
To the gallows.

Like Mammon we propose a false Heaven.
May we blind our own eyes,
Cut out our own tongues.
Never to see or sing again.