Dear God,
I can’t decide if you are an affliction or an infliction. A trap. A map
of the relationship between edges and disposition. Don’t you dare
whisper, “We have a wild to plan.” Go whack a gopher. Move
the dolls just an inch and see how long it takes
for someone to notice. It’s cruel. To needle me with this
thread. Here I sit. An underling stuck through with a pike but is this
longing or languishing? I seek a full many days.
And you. Grayous. Skynesse. The greatest part of desire.
My house is clean. I am a fury in hell. I just ate a bran
muffin. Looking all butter is the butter and if this isn’t praise,
I don’t know what is.
Yours etc.,
Betsy