Many of you remember my letter about Dean, a strappingly GORGEOUS brute whom I befriended for several weeks until The Cult drove him away. Pictured above and throughout this article, is a shirt he wore and left behind, redolent with his manly sweat of a most APPEALING fragrance and just the right amount of salty TANG. One could bottle the stuff and make MILLIONS! I slept with that saucy shirt on my pillow for a dozen-and-one Arabian nights, inhaling the seductive scent that never failed to drug me into the most delicious, deep slumber. Dreaming of my languishing self locked between strong thighs and biceps, tousled bronze hair nuzzled beneath my bowed head (left arm slung about his broad shoulder frame).

But foolish me, shortly before Samhain, I tossed that shirt out my 2nd-floor window in anger one day, where it landed in the branches of a leafless shade tree (a variety of sycamore, I presume)...the closest thing I have to a house plant! I value large, living flora nearby, almost within arm's reach. It softens the concrete edges of an urban locale. (Though when the tree is flush with green foliage--which is MOST of the year--starlings gather for the night, and awaken me at 5am chirping their feathered arses off. Between their shrill peeps, and the rattle-clatter of houseless dregs' ubiquitous shopping carts defiling the nighttime peace: DEFINITELY unappreciated! Just one more reason to love our rainy season, it flushes both birds and turds away.)

Something to remember Dean, I suppose, though it's otherwise an eyesore that SHOULD be removed by yours truly, seeing as I am the one responsible! I COULD take it down, and I WILL...soon as I finish this piece, and post it to ZekeBlog. Now that I have snapshots to preserve his memory for posterity. And he will be back soon enough, anyway. (Once These Cult Members are exposed beneath the lense of public scrutiny, and put to death or locked away for good.)