Dear Wigleaf,

I am in line at the Pearly Gates. They're not particularly pearly. Or gates. Incandescent. But they're a long way off, so maybe . . . The line is huuuuuuuge. Wolf's intestines huge. I keep hearing French. Je suis inquiet, je ne sais pas assez pour entrer. Well, not everyone. Näyttäisi olevan helvetin paljon Suomen weirdos tässäkin. Tämä on hyvä merkki minulle. I hope to be the bones of the teeth of God. I realize now that firefighters and EMTs and paramedics are fine fragments of the divine. Someone is screaming; it sounds like loons. (Ich hatte einmal Sex mit der Apokalypse, also bin ich ein wenig Angst.) All I see are backs, like different shaded clones. The land is like night, star-specked, lost candles. The feel as if there is no east or west, only the dreaming of north and south. The words Asante Mungu! land on my forehead, tingling. And an echoing inside my wooden temple, to warn the worn world: Do good do good do good do good do good do good do good       Não é o que você pensa.

I love you, Supervivencia. (I'm wondering if this might be Hell. It also might already be Heaven. It reminds me of pre-death.)

Dragoste dragoste.


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