The heart trial unended this morning with a thud, a hung jury. I should have suspected it. The word-guy I work for and I couldn’t agree. The plaintiff's attorney is angling for a mistrial, trying to recoup his costs before they send the jurors away. He has been paying experts for each word, hemorrhaging green. The lady is still dead, while another guy I know sings about beautiful unendings. I let all the words flow over me. A few of them I take in.