The slanting rain across the wide window panes. Do I love him? Fields of endless green move past. Do I love him? Sleep beacons dreams. Funny how useless we become when the lights are turned off.
A tree, a temple, a tavern and their silhouettes.The sky, orange-purple behind. Outside, a calf struggles to step on the earth. Where thirsty guillotines and the milking machines wait. Someday. Another mother, a human one, grits her teeth inside. Unlike the calf , this baby will wail after being born, though for no apparent reason. Humans have never quite been silent about anything, have they?
Between the stones, the mustard gets ground, the fish gets fried in hot boiling oil. Flies flit in and out of the children some where, I know. Lucky you, a voice quips inside. How can I be useful, I wonder. Answer this one question, God. How can I be useful? Though drenched with sweat in the sultry, summer afternoon, I choose not to switch on the fan. Masochist. I smile sarcastically. Of what use can luck possibly be, to a useless masochist?