You’re alone; you may die. This is your natural state, but now you’ve noticed and that is a knowledge that tends to tighten the mind. Take a breath, another, another. Rub one out, two. This can’t be the end; you never learned to play the bassoon.
The priest sliced through the chicken’s belly. The politician watched over his shoulder.
Entrails on the cobblestone, a certain arrangement.
“Is it auspicious?” the politician asked.
“It is difficult to tell,” the priest said.
“Let’s do the ritual again.”
“I got plenty of chickens.”
And all the angels warned you to get out of town.