It was Tuesday

Curves and arrows, beauty to bleed for. A stolen book of nice lines replaced, a lovely meat amid cholesterolic arteries, throughways that pulse with excitement and go sterile with misuse. Hatred has its uses here. So does dreaming, the hair of the psyche.

When a Finnish president wins a Nobel, do bloodways run furious, or do we wait for a dog food commercial to laugh? There is no we here.

But there is here: The only wrong part of us is uselessness. To be useless is not to ignore God, it's to ignore our wiring, a much more tragic circumstance. God thrives on being the underdog, and veins are real besides.

Does God live in our pipes? Only as a blockage--if not, we do not generally live with this knowledge or act accordingly. But put some strain of the heart, and it's Oh God aplenty. What a crutch.

I do not care for crutches. I suffer financially in private, I yearn upon the night, I call for God only when my grandmother mutters next to me in her church. I have suffered and it has been alone. Otherwise it is not true suffering, no?

To suffer with others is an inconvenience. True suffering is to have joy alone. It's amusing how much quantity affects the circumstance. It's terrifying to think that

this just happened, like a ponytail expanding in the wind that wasn't planned, or

a cancer ceasing growth because
it was
Tuesday.