Crimson and Conrad.

There must have been some sort of nuclear explosion within the living room, because it is a disaster. Dark stains litter the carpet. If a detective came wandering into this environment, he might suggest that a murder had occured at one point. The blankets that cover the sofa are now ripped apart, with chunks of cotton lodged between the cusions. A pizza that must have been left over from last week is now a piece of artwork, stuck on the wall. To the pizza's immediate right is a desk with a fish bowl turned upside down, miraculously with the water and fish still in place.

How this was done, I will never know.

The television that was given to me as a gift for Christmas two years ago is now a hollow shell containing books on Greek Mythology and Reader's Digest. The coffee table has been chopped up with an axe. I can hear the faint screams from my dead great-grandmother, who left this table for me in her will.

"Crimson, you son of a bitch. You know how much that antique table meant to me. I gave it to you because you were my favourite. You had better believe I am going to tell Oprah about this, if of course she doesn't already know. I will make sure you don't get into my house when it is your turn."

Crimson. You son of a bitch.
Oh, Granny. When will you ever shut up?

The only thing that seems to be in place is the painting of Conrad Black. With all the apparent wrongs with this living room, Conrad Black is the only thing that appears to be right. For this I'm thankful. Sometimes it seems that old Conrad is my only friend. He looks at me when no one else does. With all the disaster in this room, he keeps a faint smile. The kind of smile that says, "I know you, and you know me. We're both two peas in the same pod." This brings me more comfort than anything else. It is Conrad who I have been having more conversations with more and more these days. He listens. He interested in what I have to say.

Conrad Black abides.