Some nights a little devil crawls underneath the pillow and happily whispers stories about the future. Tricky fork-tongued creature. These stories aren’t stories at all. Just broken fragments that frustrate. Before you can finish a thought—arrive at some sensible solution—the devil starts in about something else. A little remote bit buried deep—not previously problematic, I swear. Look back and see the little scrap in the false light of present paranoia. Push forward and see the seed grow and dominate. Terror take hold. What will happen tomorrow? Next year? After death? Upon the coming of the Kingdom? What then? What then? Oh my God. Oh my God.
How very Christian of you, my dear.
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