Ah. Greetings! I see you’ve woken up. That’s good.
Oh, no, be careful. Don’t move too fast. I imagine you have a frightful headache. Am I right?
I thought so. Just sit back for a while, it’ll fade soon.
Yes, that’s good. Rest for a minute, there’s no rush. Take a break! Enjoy the scenery.
Of course I’m joking. Honestly. There are no windows and no doors. Unless you count white tile as scenery, I was being amusing.
Well, that’s your opinion, isn’t it? I thought it was amusing.
Oh, please, don’t groan like that. I’m sorry. I always forget what shape people are in when they get here. Doubtless you’re in no mood for a jester. My apologies.
Well, of course there have been others before you. You’re not the first one to end up like this, and you certainly won’t be the last. You’d have to be pretty full of yourself to think you
were that unique.
I’m not saying you have a big ego, I’m just saying that assuming you’re the first person to have the experience when you find yourself in a new situation isn’t very sensible. I wasn’t trying
to be insulting.

…

There is a girl dressed all in black who braids her hair with stars
The sparkle in her eyes an enigma, her cheeks the ruddy shade of Mars
Under lazy sunshine she sits and reads her magic book
And thinks of spells to cast as she gives the world an impish look
Her sense of awe and wonder guides her dreaming heart
Desiring to visit other dimensions in case this universe falls apart
So with a flick of her nimble wrist she opens special doors
And steps through to worlds of unknown legends and lores
Aloft on joy’s breath she sees a kaleidoscope of lands
From forests of trees like jade idols to deserts of cinnamon sands
She rides the dragon of night as it takes a bite out of the moon
Its brooding light bleeding on shifting spectral dunes
And with the dawn of molten gold she sees the gods play stochastic chess
Laughing amongst themselves to judge who is cursed and who is blessed
She philosophizes with artists who travel on astral railroad tracks
As they ride past turquoise fields and mountains of burgundy wax
…

For Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde

“Everything faded into mist.

The past was erased,

the erasure was forgotten,

the lie became truth.”

George Orwell, 1984

Some say love it or leave it.

I prefer to stay and fight.

Even as bloodthirsty gods of

perverse patriotic passion

demand—require—

blood sacrifice.

…