When I tell it, the first time I saw hail, I say it was in a desert and knocked a man unconscious then drove a woman into my arms because she thought the end was near but I assured her this wasn’t the case. When he tells it, he smiles, says the first winter after their exodus was the coldest. Rare snow came down, and his mother, who knew what the fluff was but until then had never seen it, woke him and said, Look outside, what do you see? She called his name twice. It was dark. Snow fell a paragraph to sum up decades of heat. He had no answer. She said, this is flour from heaven. When he tells it, he’s an old man returning to his mother.
Dear Empire, I am confused each time I wake inside you. You invent addictions. Are you a high-end graveyard or a child? I see your children dragging their brains along. Why not a god who loves water and dancing instead of mirrors that recite your pretty features only? You wear a different face to each atrocity. You are un-unified and tangled. Are you just gluttony? Are you civilization’s slow grenade? I am confused each time I’m swallowed by your doors.