Lines across a surface, unreadable lines of ink against the hard white copier paper. The angle is all wrong. Even if these words were those of my guardian angel, they’d be indecipherable, unknown.
The stars come out. But I am in a room and the stars are not out. Here is a government inspector. He has a match. I wait and while I wait I sit and while I sit I wish for hot coffee, a newspaper; a little something to eat.
