Call off the dogs of war. I'll shudder the mills of rumor. Call off the assassins of character. I'll stop the presses, censor the columns of gossip. So it was you who started the battle, the feud that burns deep in our hearts. It'll be me who makes the overture of peace. It'll be me who hands you the olive branch, who lays down his anger in the name of a truce. But don't be surprised at what follows: I may be the one who dips the poison quill in the poison well of blood red ink. I may etch the first symbols of war in stone. Or it might be you. You, the one who spills the first words of battle, the one who cries the first notes of rancor. The peace will erupt in smoke and ash. The hurt will start anew. It always does.