Above is my friend Cyril Mettle, and his pretty little naughty sister — Eileen Elsie Mettle. No, he’s NOT dead. He just packed out. Of course last time I checked, both of us were as straight as the long wooden TV poles protruding out of people’s houses at my village — and we both knew we were going to, at some point, find pretty little things each and… and go our separate ways with out little things… to have a whole lot of kids and live forever after. Or somthine like that. At least I though so.

But having lived together for such a long time, his moving out didn’t go without a scratch on this achy breaky little heart of mine. Sure, we’ve had our ups and downs, like all lovers friends do. But what would life be without these?

And I’ve always dismissed this feeling of emptiness that creeps in every now and then — making believe everything is ok, and telling lies to the only person I’ve become accustomed to (and comfortable with) lying to — myself. That is, until the next time when this emptiness creeps in again.

Hasta mañana, gool ‘ole friend, Cyril Mettle, hasta mañan.