Houston

 

When the dark days come, Wendy sits and thinks.  Wendy is thinking of the crust of the world which sits safely on the crust of the universe.  She is thinking about the veils of Isis, how each one is like one of the emanations of the Qabalah.  You were feeding the fire but not the flame and a tourniquet was the benefit.  You cannot be lucid with  your head in the clouds Wendy.  You cannot dream buckets but elicit surrender. 

If the morning comes and the division bell rings,  if the Chapterhouse opens and the king sits on the throne, then an epoxy madness will reveal testy puddles of integers, neither prime not  odd, but illusory just the same.  You can lift the mettle of the significant loss without defending Wendy near her washer.  She has a turnstyle and a trusted friend, but neither gun nor hoe has she.  Wendy is as Wendy is and she sips sultry sodas in a sad café.  Oh roach, or embezzeler of robust carnage heed the sinful simplicity of a statuesque and marvelous martyrdom.  And finally, when Saturday comes, have bananas and sequins.