The Eyes are the Nipples of the Face.

I'm chewing ice and grinning, I'm spewing up and spinning. It's biliousness-ness as usual from my corner of the kitchen...

I'm back right now in a bid to re-ignite the flame that has gone out between me and you. Haven't spoken in what seems like weeks. Come back to the keys and type me something - however brief - to let me know you're OK, my American friend. Don't tell me the email fell on deaf ears (eyes?). I don't think I know how to write anything better than that to tell someone I miss 'em. Your absence is felt very heavily here.

The weeks are ticking by very quickly and I have news to share with you. I have tales, myths, legends, truths, fibs and other such assorted piffle to impart upon you. It's like a CL gumbo that's only missing one spice to make it perfect. Guess what? You're it. I know when we catch up you will be pleased to hear these stories. We can make plans for meetings and covert operations and hopscotching and Nintendo. We can flip a coin to decide who has to cook the other one dinner. We can go out and see the sights you've missed all summer. We can sit in my car and admire how effortlessly it glides across the asphalt. Hell, I'll even wear baggy jeans, a rotary hoody and a straight-beak cap if that's what it takes. I'm a boy who is willing to compromise for the greater good. I'm a boy who misses his friend.

And when you arrive back here it will be to raucous applause. I will greet you in a manner befitting your status. The Secret Service doesn't give out armoured convoys for any old smoo-diver. Those, my dear F to the R to the eckle, are reserved for royals and those whose presence is of national importance. You are, to my eyes, both of these things, so watch out for one of those diplomatic petrol-sucking machines out on the tarmac when you bowl up. I'm an influential person round the traps of this pokie little country we call home. I'm like that guy, what's his name... John Key, except not a fucking idiot. Well, not all the time, anyways.

And we can probably assume that I can control the weather and therefore you should expect a sunny day for your return. The world will put on its nicest coat and gloves, an elaborate but still beautiful hat, and pull the clouds out of the way en-route to its date with you and me. When the world comes running like an excited puppy, you know that you've got things pretty well sorted in this life. What, you thought I was a mess and a wreck? Ho ho, how those days have passed... honest. But we shall talk more of that in our own time, and at our own discretion. Words for the world are not always so quietly muttered as the ones between you and I.

So quick, quick, my dear friend! Send word! I am itching for some correspondence. I really miss ya.

How many scoops of sugar in your tea?