Kid, don’t tell us what we should be when you don’t even know what we are. - Ray Bradbury

Trapped in the blood, athirst for air, Christ, who once was employed as single Son of God Now finds Himself among three billion on a billion Brother sons, their arms thrown wide to grasp and hold and walk them everywhere Now weaving this, now weaving that in swoons…

For these beings, fall is ever the normal season, the only weather, there be no choice beyond. Where do they come from? The dust. Where do they go? The grave. Does blood stir their veins? No: the night wind. What ticks in their head? The worm. What speaks from their mouth? The toad. What sees from their eye? The snake. What hears with their ear? The abyss between the stars. They sift the human storm for souls, eat flesh of reason, fill tombs with sinners. They frenzy forth....Such are the autumn people.

The women in my life have all been librarians, English teachers, or booksellers. If they couldn't speak pidgin Tolstoy, articulate Henry James, or give me directions to Usher and Ox, it was no go. I have always longed for education, and pillow talk's the best.