sorry mom. the darkest pain eating at my insides and picking at my ribs with a dull steak knife sears through the glassy surface of a gray turning aquamarine. screaming - screaming like a mother screams when she finds out her daughter has ironed a whole in her expensive silk shirt with the blue buttons. but that's not why you scream. you scream because it's all you can do to keep from growing insane around your daughter who will never be as good as you always knew she'd be. it kills me, too. back part of the feuschia project