Flea Tango

“Blechy Tango”… “Here’s what, Sergei,” the general said. “Don’t think I don’t understand you. I understand everything perfectly. I myself don’t really want to work here either. World-rewriting isn’t proctology. You don’t do it in gloves. Clear?”
“…Leaves… leaves… sad… in the last star clusters, comrade general, you… unhappily poured… farewell crystal—alive…”
I muttered it because nothing else came into my head, shaken by total eavesdropping on someone’s private life…