Friday, July 24, 2009

Laser Suicide #1

My other work, Laser Death, garnered some feedback that perhaps the title was too 'spectacular' for the actual content of the poem. It was then that I suggested I could top even that, and write a piece called 'Laser Suicide'. This suggestion was met by popular demand, hence a body of work I am now calling 'The Laser Suicides':

Even in what should have been the heady weight of his last few moments, the voice taunted him. It jeered as he burned tiny holes into his skin.

"Normal people would use a simple note," it said disdainfully. "Not dismantle their DVD-RW laser and inscribe their stupid suicide message all over their bodies."

"They will play me like a fucking record, you'll see" he said, gritting his teeth. Then he ungritted them, and smiled. "God, I'm so clever," he laughed to himself.

"You're not clever. Paper and a pen. That's all you need. Simple. Does the job. Message delivered. If you tend to make a lot of mistakes, use a pencil instead. One of those with an eraser on the top."

He looked back at the voice, who had been there since his very birth. Imagine the excitement of actually being born -- that explosive gush forth, full of life and potential -- marred by some clueless idiot asking in the background, "What the hell is all of this?" The early years had been particularly bad. He had been trying to learn simple things then, like how to walk, how to talk. That had been a major achievement, for him -- his first spoken word. When he did that, he remembered now, it had been so satisfying because he could look back victoriously at the voice. "See that?" he had told it, smugly. "That is a real voice. Physical. Motor skills. Concentrated effort paying off. Not just some faceless, bodiless drone like you."

"It's not that great," the voice had replied. "Nobody thinks it's that great, except maybe your mummy."

But back then he could easily dismiss it. The excitement of being able to talk, and walk, simply washed over the criticism. Besides, there was little substance in what it was saying. What else did it expect from a toddler? Toddlers usually walk and talk, and the act is usually affirmed by encouragement from their mummies. What a stupid voice it had been then.

And what a stupid voice it was now, too. "I suppose you're just going to watch on gormlessly as I do this?" he asked. "Just sit there and make snide remarks? It will end for you too, you know? Shouldn't you be trying to stop me?"

"I have never tried to stop you from doing anything," said the voice quietly. They both fell silent for a moment, as the DVD laser squeaked away. Then it asked, "What are you writing away over there, anyway? A bloody will?"

He laughed to himself. "Nah, other people leave wills. I'm just leaving a very short note, but choosing everything carefully."

"What sort of things?" said the voice, becoming interested. It came over and sat next to him, and peered at his work as though they were the closest of friends. He turned his hand a little and let it read the inscriptions.

"Just the usual stuff. Need to start off and reassure everybody that no, their world is not ending, etc, just mine. Take a deep breath, chill out, etc. Then specifically name each person or group. Mom, dad. Both siblings. Aunts and uncles. Cousins. Dear friends. I think that's about it. Everyone else is filed under 'Buddies'. That's it, really." He laughed to himself again. "I mean, you can't just keep going on and on in a suicide note, you know?"

They both laughed together. "No, can you imagine that? Some guy decides to off himself, but first goes ahead and writes an entire novel about it," grinned the voice.

"Heh. What a terrible thing to do to the poor police officer who has to process everything. Or to loved ones. Do you think they would read all of it, if one were to do that? Write a suicide novel in place of a suicide note?"

The voice smiled back, shaking its head and musing with him. "I don't know, really. Perhaps you could even do it in Tolkein-esque parts. Ooh. Dude -- you could have appendices!" They both laughed at what a cruel thing that would be indeed. "And even a map," jested the voice. It read once again through his draft so far, and then looked up. "Can I make one tiny, teeny suggestion?" asked the voice.

This was met with another offhand laugh. "Sure man. Go for it. What's the difference at this point? No need to be all sheepish about it."

"I think you should say something about how you want the body disposed of."

The magic was over. He looked back at it with the same painful expression he'd given it all their lives. "Aww, come on. I told you it's not a damn will! Who gives a shit how the body is fucking disposed of? You know, for a disembodied voice you sure --"

"I'm just saying," insisted the voice, "some people leave great ideas about what to do with their bodies after they're dead." If it had been corporeal, the voice would have pulled a sizeable catalog from its coat, and thumbed through the pages. "You could, say, ask to be shot from a cannon. That's quite popular these days. Or have your ashes beamed into space. I think they can do an arrangement like that at NASA. Very ... futuristic." It was thick now, relishing this idea with some sort of doughnutty glaze.

"Who gives a shit? Look, for all I care, they can burn me to ashes and blow it all into somebody's face."

"Whose face?" asked the voice.

He put his hands over his own face, and real tears began seeping from between his fingers. "It doesn't matter whose face it is. Get some face. There's millions out there."

The voice looked down unhappily. "That's very aggressive. And rude, and crude. For such a sacred moment --"

"Ok fuck it, I'm not even going to bother now," he said, and got up. He kicked the dismantled DVD-RW laser unit, whose pieces scattered across the recently varnished wood floor surface.

The voice basked in yet another glorious victory.

Sunday, July 19, 2009

The Puppy on the Tricycle

Around the roads near the Bran Castle in Brasov, Romania, where the vampire Count Dracula once used to live, you will often hear villagers tell tale of a small puppy who goes along on his tricycle during very dark times, calling out into the night as he goes on his way. It is heard: squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, and then this squeaky pedaling stops, and the puppy calls out in his sad lonely voice, "Toadie!" Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak. "Toadie, where are you?"

Often it is said that some young girl or other may come over, hearing the calls of puppy, who has stringy white fur, and picks him up, and cuddles him. "Where are you pedaling away to, little puppy?" she asks. The puppy tells her that he is looking for his Toadie.

"Have you seen my Toadie?" asks the puppy, sadly.

"No," say the girls, usually. "But why don't you come in with me? I'll give you nice meals and a warm cozy patch, and I can cuddle you all day long."

The puppy would just shake his head. "No, I need to find my Toadie," he would say, and get back on his tricycle.

"Well, then maybe you should go and look near some ponds. Your Toadie could be there," the kind girl would tell the puppy. But the puppy would not move, now. Curious, the girl would ask, "Well, why don't you go to a pond already?"

Standing still on his tricycle, the little puppy would weep sadly, his tears soaking his furry cheeks, and say "I'm blind. I'm a blind little puppy. I don't know which way the ponds are."

Then the girl, who is usually kind and goodhearted, would pick the puppy and his tricycle up, and turn him around a little. "There, I've set you in the right direction. Just keep pedaling on, now, straight, and you'll finally get to the pond."

The puppy, though blind, would nevertheless look up at the kind and pretty girl, and sadly say a "Thank you." The he would turn and pedal away, towards the pond. Squeak, squeak. squeak, squeak. "Toadie ... I'm coming to you ..." It would start to drizzle, tiny beads of Transylvanian rain, and naughty little children who would not listen to their parents and fall asleep quickly would hear, in the miserable patter outside, the squeaky pedaling of the puppy as he went by on his tricycle, calling for his "Toadie", and their hearts would be filled with so much sadness for ten days.

At midnight, the soaked, blind puppy would finally feel the cool water of the pond at his feet. "Toadie?" he would call out into the darkness, but only the quiet lapping at the sides would answer. So the puppy got off his tricycle, and paddled into the dark waters on his two feet. "Toadie," he called out into the lonely night, "where are you? Toadie ..."

"I say, old chap, what's with the racist remarks?" came a voice.

The blind puppy stopped cold in the dark pond. "Toadie?" he asked.

"Yes, yes. What is all this? Why do you keep using that word?"

The waters lapped against the puppy's belly. "I'm looking for my Toadie," he said to the voice. "She's supposed to be somewhere here, according to the kind girl."

There were three distinct patters, like hopping, and then the puppy felt something land in the water next to him. "I see," said the voice accusingly. "So some bird tells you to come into the pond, calling out for Toadies, and you go ahead and do it, eh?" The puppy felt a cold, sticky and wet thing punch him in the gut, and he panicked.

"What was that?" cried the puppy, turning in the dark waters of the pond, "what was that?"

"That will teach you," said the angry voice. "See? I'm striking you with my tongue, see?" The puppy was punched in the gut again.

The puppy thought for a little while, as the angry voice kept punching him in his tummy. Finally, he asked, "Wait -- are you a toad?"

"Fancy that," said the voice. "A toad! So you do have some manners after all."

"You don't understand," said the puppy, sadly, "I wasn't calling for you, I'm searching for my Toadie." He was struck again on his belly. "Stop it," cried the puppy painfully, "I'm blind!" He curled over in the water.

There was some silence, and the punching in the belly stopped. Finally, the voice said, with some reservation, "Well, just don't go around calling us Toadies. It's a sensitive subject."

"I'm not searching for toads," cried the puppy tearfully. "I'm searching for my Toadie, who is a ducky. I've been searching and searching, and searching, for years."

There was a little more silence. Then: "You are searching for a Toadie who is a ducky?" asked the toad.

"Yes," wept the sad little puppy. "A cute little yellow and fluffy ducky," he said. "She used to sit in the basket in front of my tricycle," he said, pointing back to the shore in the general direction he thought he'd left it. "I'm blind, you see," the puppy told the toad. "And my sweet ducky would sit cutely in the basket, and she would guide me as I cycled through the streets. If I was coming to a wall, she would say 'Quack' loudly, and I would know I had to turn."

"'Quack'," said the toad, flatly. "She would say 'Quack'?"


"And then you would turn, and not hit the walls?"


The night grew a little colder, and the toad took a sombre step back. Everything somehow suddenly seemed a lot heavier, and gravity is not a friend to hopping creatures. In front of him, the puppy began weeping again, and his nose was wet. The toad shook his head, then said, "Look -- why did she leave you?" He rolled his eyes.

The puppy stopped sniffing, and a guilty look came across his blind eyes. "Well, one day, as we were driving --"

"Cycling," interjected the toad.

" -- cycling together, on my tricycle, and I heard some music on the streets, and I became ... distracted." The puppy looked down guiltily.

"Music?" asked the toad. "What kind of music?"

The puppy shook his head. "Don't know. It was very interesting music. Jazz ... I think. I think that is what they were calling it on the streets as I cycled by."

"Ok, ok," said the toad, snapping his toad fingers a little impatiently. "So you got distracted by some music, so what?"

The puppy began to sob again.

"Oh please, God," said the toad.

The puppy continued his tale. "Well, so I was hearing the music, and I listened to it as I was pedaling. And then ... then I got lost, and I couldn't hear my ducky, who began quacking away."

"Ah," said the toad. Things were certainly getting very heavy tonight. "So you ignored her," he said.

"I did not ignore her," said the puppy, and there was just the tiniest hint of a growl in his sad voice. "I was lost in the music."

"Then what happened?" asked the toad.

The puppy sniffed, and became sad again. "Then, I drove us into a wall." At this, the toad let out a gasp. "We survived," said the puppy quickly, "no injuries, physically. But -- but my little ducky's Sunday Hat had flown off her head, and landed in the dirt." The toad covered his face with his toad fingers. "She was livid. Look -- I know, I know it was my fault. I am to blame. It's all me," cried the poor puppy.

A crocodile, who had been hiding under the water nearby -- eavesdropping on their conversation -- rose from his hiding place in the dark and shed a single sad tear. The toad gave him an evil eye, and the croc sank back into the pond again. "I see," said the toad, turning back. "So she left you, eh? On account of crashing into the wall and dropping her Sunday Hat?" The puppy nodded sadly. "So what are you going to do now?" asked the toad.

The puppy turned this way and that, and then finally called out, "Toadie? Where are you?"

"Ah," said the toad. The night had already become very heavy, and cold. The puppy's lonely calls carried across the water, lapping at the shore of the pond, and into the village night, through the roads near the castle where the vampire, Count Dracula, had once lived. There was no sign of sunlight or the day breaking any time soon.

Saturday, July 11, 2009

Oil Aviary

He fell over the plastic pigeon again.

"Oh my fucking GOD! Oh my God. Is this how it is going to be for the rest of my entire fucking existence? God, damn you!"

The mini-teapoy whirred over to his ear. "Chill out dude. It's an iterative process. The way we designed it was so you will slowly learn to not trip on inanimate objects."

"You didn't design shit. This is like your 'creative science project' gone horribly wrong."

The mini-teapoy flew away sadly, and left him to himself. "Fucking Hell," he screamed to the world in general.

A replacement teapoy with better apƩritifs came to whisper into his ear. "Maybe if you eat the red pill, you'll feel right as rain." It dropped the red pill into his cusped palms, but there had been no warning about the epidermic reaction. The pellet began to dissolve into his body. Then his body began to expand. Because you, the reader, have actually done Viagra, I feel confident as a portrayer to depict the scene as though they were injecting Viagra into ever little pore in your skin. Even the pores in your eyeballs, even! And up your nose. Right through your tongue and down your throat ...

When the operation was complete, the teapoy glided safely back to its base. Then the transformations began to occur. First, he had thought one of his hands had exploded away from his torso. But no -- it had just become obscenely massive. He tilted over, but soon one of his toes began to lay purchase. Like one of those rubber-dart balls, his adhesive quality to ground seemed to quadruple. "No," he screamed. "This isn't what I meant by true power!" An ear-lobe spat itself into a rusty floor nail, securing purchase. "This is crap design!" he screamed.

The teapoy that had given him advanced apƩritifs began to record his reactions, from a safe distance. There was a lot of 'whining and moaning' about materialism. Apparently, over there, in the real world, he had been begging for them to stop with the cardboard cutouts already and give him true emotional content. But as his body mass grew, the (now) creature began to realize its impending fate. "It's crushing my fucking BRAIN!" he yelled, in Capitals, "it's overeating and overusing and abundanizing (new word) and SQUEEZING MY QUALIA OUT OF ME!"

Lovin' General

This is a piece I wrote at this one poetry forum where there was a sub-forum called 'Love in General'. Thought it would be kinda funny to debut over there with a poem called Lovin' General. Geddit? No?

The bars are downstairs for your receptions,
if there seem those you believe love you more than I.
Go now, if you absolutely must speak to them.
Leave me here, alone, with my real devotees.

Otherwise all communication devices with the outside world must be forfeit, please.

Let us then start with a simple laugh to dispel
aforementioned, premeditated or plainly postured
unpleasantries, from the guts themselves.
Imagine we are all on vacations in gondolas.

Then, we easily slip into a tropical forest hike, just you and me, only us, alone in dense wet jungle.

Now we come across the pyramids, under curious ochre.
Do you remember us kissing, before them, in the future?
All of you was sweating from the intensity;
I had to carefully brush down the beads as I tasted.

Ok, we stop smoochin' now and it is time for spacesuit fantasy in warp speed. Are we ready Sulu?

All of this has been practiced for millenia, it seems,
and now, up to us to practise unto infinity.
Unto infinity, my Love ... oh, whoops ... it's ok, it's ok,
you just forgot to attach my fastener there, but it's ok.

Setbacks must be expected. I'm slipping away now, from You. Just remember loving unto infinity, like we've practiced, it'll be fine.

Friday, July 10, 2009


This piece is presented very roughly, as a sort of 'original thought' from a dream. Why? You ask specific certain parts of [edited]

(note to self: replace square brackets with more interesting things)

[someguy]: Anyway, why're you askin' me about [the raviolli] in conjunction with her cunion?

Larry: (Eyes pop out for a second) I'm sorry -- her cunion? Do I want to know what that means?

[someguy]: Maybe you do, maybe you don't. If ya do, look it up on Urban Dictionary. If ya don't, whateva.

Larry: Look, all I want is for one of you to admit.

[someguy]: Admit what? Look pal -- Ozbek over there says he gives you the best ingredients, home grown.

Larry: Yeah. He said that. Does he? Are you saying he doesn't give me the best ingredients?

[someguy]: All I'm saying is I give the best ingredients too. So it's just a --

Larry: (Cutting in) No, no, you never give the best ingredients. I knew your --

[someguy]: Look. He's givin' you the best, I'm givin' you the best, it's -- it's a 'whodunit?'.

(Long pause, Larry thinking)

Larry: (Begins to laugh to himself) Oh, so it's a 'whodunit?'. No my friend, that is not a 'whodunit?'. What we have here is a 'nobody dun nothing', okay? Or possibly even a 'nobodysfresh'.

[someguy]: Naw, it's a 'whodunit?'. Like, you don't know if this guy is right or the other guy is right. You gotta snoop around, like a goddamm snoop."

Larry peers into [someguy]'s eyes carefully. [someguy] just shrugs and looks back into his eye, occasionally glancing back to make sure his rotting produce is not stolen by thieves.

[someguy]: A 'whodunit?', dude. It's a no-man's land, ma --

Larry: Ok, ok, ok, I get the idea. (Walks closer to [someguy], conspiratorially). Ok, who is this guy that came up with 'cunion'? And what does it mean?

[someguy]: Oh, I don't know Larry. I can't tell ya that. I sell only fresh ingred --

Larry: Fuck the fresh ingredients. Tell me cunion.

[someguy]: Tell you cunion?

Larry: Tell me!

[someguy]: (Reluctantly) Well ... word has it that it was a guy in Rockport, MA.

Larry: What? Rockport, MA? Isn't that in Canada?

[someguy]: Word has it, he ate so many clams one night, he turned on the CNN. Then he saw it was just like The Onion. He had hisself a tendency to conjugate and acrymonize everything, so he came up with CuNioN.

Sunday, July 5, 2009

Sunshine at the Deli

Experienced sunshine for the first time in nine years. Nobody at the local deli was responding, so had to actually, physically, walk over. Didn't go to the same deli -- I went to a place just a few blocks ahead.

That's the cool and magical thing. If they close one shop down, a new one magically occurs. You can't stop the signal -- the signal for life, and variety. For choices, and changes. People often ask me if I'm Tersa.


"Tersa Terra?" they say.

"Isn't that a brand of potato chips?"

Then they look at me like I've gone crazy, for twenty minutes.

Please Tell Me He's Not Going to Stop It

The server at the juice shop had only flashed her teeth as a means of being polite. There was no need for elaboration, on his part, but nevertheless, there it came. He spilled his guts to her on the topic of dentistry.

"It only dawned on me last night, you know?" he said through the straw of his fresh squeezed orange juice. She was like an insect, hypnotized by the growths of the swamp, seduced into his story by the inevitability of the impending sticky frog's tongue. "I need to stop brushing my teeth. I mean, there's no point in it."

She looked back at him like the stuffed woolly mammoth that he was, in the glass cube over at the Museum of Natural History (and except that he wasn't as cute). History, being the operative word. But he did not falter, no.

"It's become too much of a habit," he said, still slurping down that orangey goodness. "I mean, it's all falling into place. Sinking down into me, you know? I mean -- all those times your moma told you to 'brush your teeth every day'. It wasn't a true fear of dental hygiene. It was because she was scared to death that they're putting bugs in the teeth!"

There was a mocha orange frappe that someone was waiting for in the line down there, but she felt some strange sense of obligation to hear this crazy person out. Sort of how the people -- the real humans -- always have to pause whenever a species of life dies off.

He looked back at her from the straw. "I uh. I don't have any more," he said. "That was it. That was the revelation I had this morning."

"Your revelation was that you don't have to brush your teeth?" she said. He nodded back quietly.

She stared for a little longer, then gave him permission to leave. He did so, very politely, as he always does, without any real fuss. And it was just as he had exited the building when Thomas Robert Yardsley Jr. decided to hold up the juice shop for some hard cash.

Everyone was like, "Goddamit. Fuck you Tarantino."

Friday, July 3, 2009

soon, it'll be like just ten cents

How I came to have a diamond in one eye, instead of my precious cornea, is that one day I was sitting down at a local establishment. I was reading my copy of Wired, which had a provocative piece about how in the future the diamonds will be just ten cents.

This was very captivating for me, of course, because I'd just had a very deep discussion with this woman I loved at the time, about what kind of ring she may wish to wear, should I be so bold as to ponder (of course). I told her about my awesome idea for a ring that looked very basic, but the cool part was that there were gadgets inside linked to some satellites, which where if I squeezed the ring a little, she, even if on the other side of the world, would feel a little squeeze. This idea was immediately discarded, through a direct demand by her, for a straight up diamond. I guess she was one of those very prim and proper people, you know? Very Hellenist.

So there I was, reading in Wired about how it's just going to be ten cents. Man, was I not having a ball with that? So anyway, I turned to this guy, who I had seen now and again, and remarked how the value of diamonds is kind of like an inverse Moore's law. I did not know at the time that he would take such great offense at such a simple (and admittedly retarded) musing.

It turned out that this man was a photographer of gems. Being a simple and frank person, I just laughed in his face. "How hard can it be to take a picture of a little stone?" I really, really should have never asked. I was treated to this whole dissertation about light and reflection, and then when dug deeper, the whole seedy underworld of it.

"So you just get flown around, because you're the top photographer of these things?"

"I do a very good job," he said.

Perhaps my scorn was borne a little from jealousy. Is this not how it happens? Without a full grasp of his peer's effort, there is a tendency for man to simply mock. In larger terms, this is a survival instinct. Some guy tries to purchase value about a stone, declaring its fine glinting qualities, and another just spits down his throat.

Our argument got to the point where he begged me to come and see his workshop. "I don't need to see your workshop," I told him. Yet, of course, I was already seduced. When we were both finished with our rounds, we both went to it.

It was as though it was owned by Gepetto or something, seriously. Although I like to show disdain for baroque contraptions, I could not help touching them, turning them. Twisting. And he could not help telling me to keep my hands off.

Finally I got bored of even that. "This is all very nice," I said, winding one of the mechanisms which worked in such a way that the faster you wind it, the blurrier became the viewed object.

"Ah, that is called the tease," he said. "It is used by very professional photographers as tool for wielding passion itself."

I rolled my eyes. And then I saw that he noticed.

"Well," he said, his voice suddenly taking a very cold turn, "the reason that I have brought you here, of course, is to prove that I really do have the most impressive gem in the world. In my possession."

"Well, if it's going to be worth less than a dime in the future, let us not dilly-dally, eh?"

"Very well. Your unkindness, look here." With a flourish, he pulled away a cloak of maroon velvet, and there, glinting in the dull yellow light, was a diamond larger than even a whole eye. "I invite you to check closely," he said, in a very courtly manner.

Why I even did that, after reading that whole article in the magazine, I will never know. Perhaps it was the brusqueness by which my fantastic idea for a wedding ring was spurned. Perhaps it was how small I felt when she insisted on a diamond. Nevertheless, I did check it out, very closely, with my left eye.

As you may expect by now, he slammed my head down, so that my eye was squished, and the diamond fitted into my skull. Everything after that was hazy red, for me. I did not give a second thought as to revenge -- my first motive was to get some emergency aid as soon as possible.

The matter of the diamond lodged in my eye was hotly debated. My doctor contended that if it were to be removed, my brains may spill out. A judge, hearing this testimony from a medical professional, deemed that no diamond can be worth more than a human being's life.

It should have been nice for me. But imagine finally coming home to your love with the diamond she asked for, lodged in your eye socket. It all fell apart, naturally, and in a matter of days I was all alone again.


The little girl laughed when I told her my story, and I laughed a little too. What a fool I had been.

"Do they ever try to catch you, and try to cut off your head?" she asked, catching me a little off-guard.

I looked at her. She was so simple, yet with such profound cruelty in her gaze. "Well, wouldn't you want to cut off my head, if you could?" I asked. "For the diamond?"

"No," she said sweetly, and we both just sort of laughed a little.

"Well, then," I asked, "do you think your father may cut off my head? Just for the diamond?" And then things became very uncomfortable between us. I did not like it, putting the little child in such a situation, but I had to know in which direction the wind was blowing. She squirmed uneasily on the bench. "We're ... I'm from a very poor village," she said. Then she turned away from me. And then she just got up and walked off.

It wasn't that I was that concerned about some peasant running over to chop my head off. There were marksmen of far greater skill seeking bounty of me. But it is good to know how the flow, in general, travels, so that the running can be fluent.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

You Can All Come Back Now

After doing all his ... deeds, he called back to the others. "Ok, you can come back now."

There was a silence, but one that nevertheless recounted his deeds. There were entire catalogs of articles. Bullet point #234243 subsection #3564445: 'Posed common paradox as argument, then called me a shit for declining to engage.'

He called, and he called, as a lone cub may to its pack in the wet moonlight that often lathers the darkest hills. Slowly, he began to go crazy ...

... but it was with a craziness that had a complement in the atmosphere. A single wormhole open, only visible at this level of madness. It spoke to him as himself, saying, "It is not us who must come to you, but you who must come to us." Thus he woke from his maddened dream, and the only thing deserters could say to anyone they cared for was:


massage 'n' ho

The body is too tense and must succumb to hammer first.
At first the individual will complain, and then it will long.
It longs because it is made to long, by certain parties.
By the end of the night, it will ask for a massage,


until one day it is told that there is a chance for it.
Massage is coming, and so will you be. Coming.
The individual will pack up its belongings, and wait at the door.
When You knock, there will be no reply, for it is You who

must endeavor the pain of opening it.

Take him to the baths and women.
























thirty ...