XLIX. Soul Sold Sole?

The little martian looks over at me uncertainly, he shrugs his little shoulders and looks apprehensively at my phone

“I mean…”

My face mirrors his own knackered, uncertain one.

It all reads a little wonky. Feels a little off.

“wine...? ‘

“a horror movie?”

“it doesn’t sound like he wants to see your soul”

I snort.

“Definitely not. “

I try and come up with an appropriate response, I type and type, then black the words out.

The little Martian takes over for a bit, he hammers out a message on the keyboard, but I grab the phone before he hits send

It’s a melodramatic sonnet, about a bee in a bonnet.

I backspace, think, type thoughtfully, think, backspace, and put my phone on the side.

Perhaps it is best not to say anything at all.