In the odd event that we meet again -- a missive to keep in the wallet
Souls in cupped hands (a waste; tis an aether)
Sigils in red ink, burnt in the flesh
A drowned woman, dragged upstream by a bear (the face is intact)
Devils pretending to enjoy art (your friends are enthralled)
'Alástor' came to me in a dream; under the furs he was rotten. He would have sloughed had I touched him (so I did not). He would take my letters beneath, to our shared friend, but the truth is neither got back to me. His eyes shone bright, bright, bright.
He or she was an acolyte of St Patrick. Very little is known of them. On the properties of prayer: Passion may precede belief. One may not believe at all and be struck by savage guilt or beauty or benevolence all at once. The truth of this world is that there is only one and that it is continuously eating itself. The big parts eat the little ones, and the little parts swarm them. Until we plowed fields hunger was a mode of regulation, like molten rock and sea.
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