We truncate what you need to be to fit you in your lucky life with us. We cut and paste, to see the version that brings us delight.The almost-language in your eye, that seems such sorrow to my own, is just a suffocated cry that leaves you, finally, alone, and willing to accept much less: a place beside the hearth, had we still hearths; mock food; a pedigree that shapes, yet won’t admit, redress.