A Prayer at the End of the Week

Nada más. Pues nada. Then comes nada, and afterwards, nada. Nada of your dreams, my love, my nada. Or is it yours? Can we just stop for a while? Think about it, stop. Nada, nada, nada - it tastes so good - this world, then nada. I want to raise a booming voice from the hilltop or the top of the bookself, where I don't fit, and state, once and for all, nada.

Then we can try.

Oh my God, they killed Holbrooke!?