She is gathered on her end and she is stained and in a ditch. There is a darkness in the unshadowed mind of the unsettled tyrants. She is unmarried and she is fair. The turns of the morning’s events stir and become the attention of the underburdened aristocracy. She is unmarried and fair.


Yes, she is unmarried.


The rest of the saturated men are not equaled nor proselytized as quickly. You are a king she says and she is unsurprised by his surprise. The north star, he says. He was converted early and he was married early. She is an ape.


On the often unbeaten chance that she might allow him to suicide, there are the directions in the drawer and the directions say: Stop.

She is a unmarried, sir. Her hands have been cut off and are on the floor of the main hall of the castle. We live in a fucking castle, he says. And now she has no hands to add to her duality.

The men that are in the hall applaud and smile. She has been loved prior to the arrangement between two sophisticated and sure countries. We are afraid, President Honreau says.



The man twists and is morality. It is only his individual hope and understanding that permits him to succeed in establishing the black and white society. It is a state that is torn and split between a moral dirt and an untamed criminal seed.

Enough, he says and he is faintly crippled but secure. He thinks, sometimes, about his own balance.

There were not these types before, counsel says. These are the fingered hands of an unskinned settler. This is the thanks. The day is not un-wet.

The world again has come to war against them. It is all that is understood. This, however, is not unlike any reality the world has not known—could not ever know. Better yet, it is the only world that could be possible.

She doesn’t have any fingers. She doesn’t have any hands. And she is breaking. It is, therefore, infinitely mysterious, she says. It is complex and rude and holy and unholy. It is something and one thing to its finite inhabitants.

And we do, after all, die. I have not been passing things along as well as others, he supposes.


This is it, perhaps, to us. To the world, there is always the next time. Turn into the war again and turn and cut her hands off again. We, or something else, is here. He is an advisor to the prince and he muses with himself in the early mornings. Each day like the one before it—except to one who knows that there are only so many days or there are not. We clever dividers.


These are now times to suicide or to un-adorn and to drive to know the skin and heart of man and woman. Or lush and lurk and play. She is smiling and he is smiling and she has no hands because they were cut off.


There are not those types here. Sit and settle. It is time to live the second half. Here I may sit.


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