Dear Holly

If Stewart were a sculpture he’d be hideous. Rusty bronze with hardened crusty boogers stuck to the inner creases of his munched-up mangled nose. His hair would seem oily even in metallic facsimile, for the grease would permeate the non-porous membranes of the turd-like alloy. Stewart would be one of those head-and-neck sculptures with no torso or legs – but his stumpy neck would be too large to fit on the pedestal supporting it, and would flow over the sides. Like a muddy crystal ball predicting a bleak future, Stewart would sit on your mantle and scowl.