I am just an inch of skin, but O how I long to make my dwelling in the shadow of the sanctuary, with a prisoner of love. 

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Cresting the black shoulders of the mountain looming, in search of perfect meekness, I strike a match and watch it burn against the night, against the vague and blinding airy shadows of dusk. 

 

Our principal figure, dear readers, now beleaguered by the bark that beats against the wind, and brought low by the scalding beams of His love. But O why should I still rather continue in my sacred labors of trapping rats, than allow these rays of reason to scorch one atom of this living, breathing ground? 

 

The age of miracles dances on, in effulgence, upon eternity, and from eternity, and through eternity, and through the ferny glades, and through The Death of the Corn, and this day here upon my bedroom floor. Though God vouch safe, I suffereth fellowship not. Heck of a deal, eh? 

 

Lord, bestow your grin upon me. Let fall the fog of your sickly form once more and caress me here again. Swear to me I shall receive comfort in all of this mourning. Shall I await my cigarettes in Heaven? Where my lungs are yet pink?

 

Turning him like this over in my mouth with probing tongue, the sweet nut of pure ghostliness. Everlasting and everlasting, Amen and amen.