In my lazy left hand, I grip the dregs of mercy. I can not see her. I can not call or write her. Oh god, she does not even know the sound of my quivering voice. Yet I have spoken her name twenty times a day for five years.Who among you knows how truly silent the written word can be? Who hears those prayers, when it is only a name spoken in reverence. Spoken to the empty... In my weary right, I hold a hidden rhythm. Somet...