The women ladies came over to my home. Well, my apartment. I mean, my host's apartment. Okay, the cinder block tenement shack. The women ladies came over with pointy leather shoes and tags not meant for removal - finger prints still warm on their portable mentholated inhalers.

I offered them kucicha tea in oversized mugs, sweetened with dark agave nectar, steeped in water boiled in a kettle. I offered them my choice in music - something which in my opinion I am well versed. I am well versed in my opinion.

I started the conversation with the most rousing subject I could imagine - a topic I've been bouncing around in private conversations between me and myself as of recent;

"It is well documented that in ancientest times a sort of animism/cannibalism of the purist sense was practiced wherein the devout relatives would ritualistically consume bodily fluids and body parts of the recently departed. It was believed that the honorary survivor would be imbued by the essence of the deceased, whose spirit would live on. This is the literal infantile origin of today's widely practiced funeral feast. So unquestioned was the belief in consecrating and consuming the dead, village doctors would include these powerful ingredients in their healing medicines. And so prevalent was the practice, eventually Christian medics began placing the symbol of the cross on their cures to denote the lack of "decedent components" and denounce such a pagan practice. Modern prescription bottles still display this crusader's symbol (notice the cross entangled by two serpents), though it is a rare patient who knows from whence this symbol on our chemical "cures" came."

The conversation started was greeted by cricket chirping, so I offered them a melody played on the piano - my favorite string instrument, which went over much more smoothly.

As the women ladies left, I saw their necks elongate and heard one of them say, "She plays piano beautifully, but did you see that house?"

The next week I was one to be invited to the woman lady's spotless - sterile - home. And as I left, I might have uttered the words for anyone touched by wind to hear, "She has a gorgeous home, but have you heard her play piano?"

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