The terminus of every paranoid course is inevitably one’s own unlocked bedroom window.

You wouldn’t know her from Eve, but you share a handful of quirks. That haunted sliver of common ground is where I met her. She has the gift of perfect suspension, nearly impenetrable once she’s up. Very nearly.

Her sermon can turn the stomach and the eyes of the most fervent choir.

Offerings are collected under duress; a tithe, an ante.

Altar call is a clockwork nightmare; come be washed in the shame of the only begotten daughter of a match made in muffled screams.

stripped dreams
massless disbelief
saline streams
bloodshot teeth

And so I see; she’s managed to find some of our things.

Knows not onto what she’s stumbled.

There’s going to be some real trouble in her department, I think.