She was helped in the struggle by the angels; celestial forces placed each thing in its place, thus allowing her to give of her best...Her companions say: "She's so lucky!" But she knows that "luck" is knowing to look around her and to see where her friends are, because it was through their words that the angels were able to make themselves heard.
Providentially, I have dear ones. Dearer still. But they couldn't be any more removed. Where I loathe they love. They pass on lessons learned on the battlefield. I pass on lessons gleaned betweeen the binding. I hate to hate right now knowing that they wish me the opposite but sooner or later i'll be what The Prophet says. On break from self-flagellation my name's declaimed and it rings true. I sign checks with it, irredeemable on account of my shite cursive. Mrs. Tracy's gold stars were reserved for master multiplicators so I locked down my times table to the detriment of my penmanship. Integrity of nomenclature aside, my durable struggle is not so noble as Kunta's, never will be. Master and enslaved all wrapped up in one body brown. Call me an emotional cutter. Call me a coward for the bloodless masochism. Call me crazy. Call me loved.
In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass...
Today's seraphs: L, D & T. The universe never ceases to surprise me. A defy definition from L, a just called with these three words from D, presence despite my persistent absentia from T & fam.
Much more than they can see is how it'll always be, believe me.