It occurs to me that it is a recognized voice, unexpected from its origin. Poison. Instead of the curse words that surface and shouldn’t be said, I wonder how I should respond with more description. I need a peacock to suck out the poison so that it’s feather plumes can transform it into beautiful colors. May the pen in my hand blot out the stink that arises from the pile that arrived in my text box with an invisible cloak wrapped about it. May I spill enough ink on pages to purge the ugliness and turn it into the light and beauty that is only sometimes glimpsed in this place…