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[anewlanguage]

You know, Dean? Dean, you might be right. Maybe half right.

[Some six hours after Barbara's post, Cain is completely stinking drunk. But he's also feeling more sociable, and between swigs or statements he hums a song, occasionally mumbling the lyrics.]

...Hit her foot against a splinter,
Fell into the foaming brine...

I'm not rethinking stopping being a pacifist, but I oughta say I'm feeling like doing target practice, and the boat's not real steady under my feet, you get what I mean. So hurry on down, clear out my gun cache.

Knives, too.

[He takes a healthy swallow from the bottle.]

dreadful sorry, Clementine...

[The feed cuts about halfway through that chorus

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[anewlanguage]

[His eyes are still closed. In his mind he sees the pressure of her fingers as colored lights against a pitch black canvas. He may not seem the type to be into meditation, but he is, and this is helping.]

We leave a whole lot behind around here even if not much changes on board. And I'm pretty sure I've come damn close to hate...it's a waste of feeling, you know? It distracts you if you're stuck always thinking on a person and how they've done you wrong. I learned to let go 'cause I had to, had nothing to do with peace or harmony, just had to do with keeping at the top of my field.