Knocked over charity shop jewellery stand after cycling down hill, tying up bike outside in hurry, forcing my way past old knitting patterns. On knees with crucifixes, relive past life. Earrings, clasps, bracelets; the slaves are settled for the night. Low cloud ablaze on western horizon. Later, man says, there is no such thing as goodwill. I knew he was mistaken. What is this door for? And this hallway? Why stoop to this? I can hear a) A drip, and b) A ruffling sound under the washing machine. No more worship for me today! I won’t look. Earlier, I lose patience with garlic – all 350 crushed grammes of it – and the vodka – 250 ml. All substances think they can persuade me, control me, poison me, or heal me. They don’t get how being immortal isn’t everything.

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