two girls in dull coats standing on some meleagered station port, wishing for egypt. we gathered our coins and saw about 30 fortune tellers.
they all told us the same thing, "you have to build something new."
and wormed my face sullen. the different kinds of bark on trees. this is how children are.
living in our small spaces we used to think that every story i wrote was remembering. peas, drenched and arrived in the rain. when suddenly i began to recognize i was sometimes writing the future. it was a guilty thing to realize if i hadn't been so morbid we all might have been much happier. i'm sure to end up in hell, but now i'm not so worried about it.
there are things i can and cannot tell. i am in control and sometimes giving competition to angels, i think. when all i ever wanted was to work with angels, but despite my diligence i write the crooked hand. give up a game you can't win. if a god made these hands crooked i will work with crooked hands. i will make more things in this world crooked than straight. hail hail the slanted world. from this road we can see the future. they plan to tip us into the sea. cherubim, i cannot allow this.