fig. a6) Laugh at the seduction of my thing, its evil is still as sweet. The drawer with my business can be opened by any angel. Flat and left folded, my shirt's in this drawer. Its purpose is worried. It's being more than the quiet that's settled in there. Drawer upon drawer and opened to this. I'll remember that boat once I've hauled out its line. I'm crossed. I feel as erratic as a cold winter rain. My eyes are frizzy and my skin is all hot from so much haywire, so much botched nerve speak. I'm alone, sitting in the chair. I'm waiting. I'm alone inside this room. The room that's quiet and tall. The door is shut and the shelf is often bare. The general foam of my experience is standardized. It's sufficiently limited by the nowhere presence of a convicted god, an angry god and someone else's god to not matter much. While none of them are in here with me now, I'm still battered and tossed about like inside knickers at the stra...