I'm sitting. Writing. Both of which I'm used to, I am enamored by the silken song of ink as it defies alchemy and becomes a simple stain, a prayer.

Dry and I know this song, as I weep to it like All Apologies. I listen relentlessly-- God may not be in that rhythm, but it doesn't take divinity to answer a pauper's bell.

Am I a writer? A musician? An artist? Am I anything at all? Or do I deserve to be buried in ground unconcecrated by the stars?

It seems my malady of mortality has me forgetting these questions that once swarmed me like a rose scented glass and I must return to them.

My answers lie in a library near the grave of a cannibal. Only the dead can answer a question of life.

I'll look for God in Paris.

Yes
No
Do nothing