Once you’re sawed in half. Once you’re turned into birds. Once you free yourself from the straitjacket through a key your assistant passed to you when she kissed you. Once you turn a cat into a lobster underwater.
Examiners dressed in hazmat suits will number and photograph your wardrobe, pick apart your medicine cabinet, vacuum your bed sheets, collect the hair from your sweaters, number each of your possessions, lining them up on a vinyl sheet on the lawn.
In Paris, so many lies flew through the pneumatic tubes. False intelligence sucked up and spat out. Rumors of uprisings and resistance.
A supple blue and dark tapestry depicting a global narrative of destruction and terror across vast landscapes of catastrophe all sown in silver thread with the utmost craft and elegance. Startled to think of it early one morning you’ll leap from your bed-chamber and down the long hallway crying “I must have it!”
One must be lucky to mingle with the rich and powerful and avoid their snares. I was not so lucky.
I made my first entrance to their circle as just a Shark Girl. The agency fitted me with fins and a set of false teeth. I stood by the pool with an arrangement of Black Sea sashimi and smiled politely at the party guests, most of whom kept their distance with a wary glance.
If the box arrives this week it will conclude that period of your life that you have lived up to now. Exciting.