burning

I haven’t written for a while. For a while there wasn’t much to write. Truth be told, only between you and me, my oldest and dearest friend, I screamed and raged and cursed blackest the news. T’is quite a skill to blaspheme the Almighty without saying a word you know. But then I am, after all, the most darkest of pools, that unseen world beneath where all the world’s slimy things wriggle and twist and perish in the mud, while not a ripple ever reaches the surface for those lunching onlookers to look upon. I hoped, nay, I demanded my words carry due weight, with all the sophistication and grace of haute couture. And I, the expert tailor! Draping silk around life’s miseries for others to wear as second skins for a day, and a day only. But alas, my dear friend, no one greeted me at the door; the house was empty and left abandoned and my words not posted at the window for all to read, but left in the furnace as kindling and nothing more. So I, in my rage, well I broke the glass and stamped on the shards until my feet soaked the tiles red – then I set fire to the house and all the crosses within. The devil said words don’t burn, but he’s wrong.

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