Dear G,
I, the it, as seated here inside this cold, dark cardboard box that they call your own – your creation, the asylum you have so hospitably lent me, understand fully that all this is merely a joke.
So I won’t be complaining.
Thank you for these little holes up in our roof that lit up when you turn on your room fluorescent light. I know they are holes, which makes them non-existent. But the red-white striped heads call them stars anyway. Together with your yellow moon lamp, they make me want to live another blackout. Perhaps they’ll let me catch a glimpse on how they, glorious lights flicker to death. They aren’t sinners. But maybe that’s just how you are.
Thank you for closing the doors when the cold starts piercing through my skull. And when it begins to burn, get a little shaky and sometimes, unpredictably volatile, I know you are just trying to be funny again. In times like these, thanks for resuscitating Time back to her own senses. She may redundantly be suicidal, but how you tirelessly forgive her - almost entertaining.
Thank you for my fellow cardboard box-lings. Most of them are simply beautiful. But others talk about you like they have had just dinner with you some 20 minutes ago. The veiled heads say “baby without the marriage contract equals no work. No pay, no nothing. It’s in the holy bible. So shoo! We care not about that small a being.”
There’s no reasoning with them. I can’t help but think that the Catholic Church is an underground pro-infanticide empire. Why not? Killing babies is in the bible too. But maybe it’s just them. Or it’s just you getting funnier by the minute.
I’ve counted my “maybes”, straightforward and crooked, in this entire letter. It gave me nausea. And I know you’ve been inviting me to your potluck my whole boxed life. But I wish you to remain a mystery. For in knowing hope is useless, and bargaining - just desperate.
Maybe some other life.
It.
