You ask me why I can't say the right words Sometimes its hard when I know that it hurts I just don't say There are no words I can find that won't hurt I looked I searched there's no other way to say I'm leaving you Time goes by I don't know Why I feel This ain't real you are my lover and I need to be real its hard to say the right words I try to say the right words My voice is sweet , but it still hurts It's hard to say the right words I leave this way there is no good way to say good bye you see I leave out of love for you and me. Time goes by I just smile You don't know how I feel my eyes cry I can't lie I need to be real It's hard to say the right word I try to say the right words It's hard to say the right words I try to say the rights words My voice is sweet, but it still hurts Its hard to say the right words

....Resting her head on the bus window she sighed. Her eyes closed for a moment, as the driver decided to slam on the breaks. Anastasia's neck jolted and her head pounded the window. A very dark skinned woman, out of breath and distressed, had caught the attention of the driver and he had stopped to let her aboard. "Da took him and da cut him inta pieces. Da chop da little boy. Da chop da little boy." The woman gasped these words as she walked down the aisle. Although she was ebony in color, her voice and her pace rang as pale as a ghost. It was obvious to Anastasia that this woman had seen something horrifying. Outside, she could see the Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant on the right of the bus was lined in police tape. Cop cars piled the fast food joint's perimeter. A small cluster of onlookers gathered outside hoping to get more information. Apparently, a young boy had been mutilated so badly that the pieces of his body had been strewn randomly across the entirety of the not so "finger lickin' good" parking lot. Whispers of voodoo floated around the bus. The San Francisco Sun reporter who had been stumped locating a cemetary, had instead, discovered cold- blooded murder. The New Orleans heat suffocated Anastasia. She found this hard to hear -- hard to fathom. What kind of a person would do this to a child? The story of a little girl in Zimbabwe rose in her memory. The little girl was being gang raped in the night by Zimbabwe tribesmen (an ancient custom to do this to a virgin aged 11 or 12 before her wedding day) and her cry for help was answered by lions. The lions attacked the men and sat in a circle around the little girl until help arrived. Why didn't the lions rescue this little boy? Or better yet, why didn't the ferocious 'gators hear his screams? Anastasia flared up angrily when she came to the conclusion that urbanization had killed all the fucking animals. Why didn't the person hurting him hear his cries? Why didn't anyone help? Her rage shifted to perplexity as she wondered what the missing link or the "golden ball" of conciousness that children and animals seem to possess and that some humans deny, ignore, bury, or just plain lose in adulthood.