Klunkistan, in the near prairie hell of it all. She’s warm, conjuring the tastes of older visits and fireside romances. “You’re always welcome, Hestia. I’ve kept the altar by the door. I’ve kept it flat and forward, as you’ve asked,” Hestia softly kneels, patting the ground beside her. Then just as lightly, a cat appears and both of them leave. It’s long since Hestia’s name has been a thing given, much of its power has become the stuff of secrets and dark visits. But somehow, she never really goes. Somehow, there’s always time for her to make more damn secrets, The Stenographer's Child The bottle's dry. It's house night, but the basement switched back to funk about an hour ago, so the couch is empty again. Smoking alone in my jetpack can be nice too, but hardly innocent. Someone calling themselves Kurtis, wants us to keep moving. They're whining, it's all played out. But I don't know. Instead, I ignore Kurtis and I start making time with this lost bear,...