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Issues sit lead-heavy on my troubled mind, finding (like a list of unsolved crimes) the climate of an open-ended absence of conclusion, which feeds confusion, demanding resolution. Choosing discussions with the utmost caution, I clutch at straws to force to the floor a fair debate - then late in the day recoil, soiled in hand, like a man who wrestled a monster covered in shit. Spitting your savage insults, you command the field. I yield a little space, retracing steps to place a wide berth between us - a saintly restraint - but the devil inside me wants a war.      Whereas with others logic wins the day,      you seek to wound in all the things you say.