November 27th, Year of the Moon

Autumn murmurs silky rhymes. I breathe as freely as this illness allows. The dictator is still abusing my body. But he does not get to my head anymore, which is filled with thoughts of Patricia Grimes and the last movie she watched. Australia fought a war against the emu, and they lost. Ancient Egyptians slept on stone pillows, which is most likely the reason they looked constipated. Lizzie Borden would have made the most adorable children with the Axeman of New Orleans. People once made beautiful clothes out of flour sacks. Mexico’s Ciudad Juarez is known for its corn on a stick, and its femicide. The death of Native Americans and the resulting reforestation caused the Little Ice Age. And, just maybe, the dictator never left my head after all.

I am greedy with my warmth, these days. The children leave me with so little to give. But it is fine, and I am safe. I have my hellhound to protect me and the treasure I have collected. He sees to it that no one enters to take from my heart box. No, not without asking. Not without a doctor’s note, so that I can be sure guests and potential thieves have been cleared of the plague.

I am sick, yes, but busy. If you see me, you will notice I am following the lines that lead to something more marvelous than my own imagination. That’s not me, whispering into fields of wheat. I am here.

November 27th, Year of the Moon

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