There are four gray men in a gray car, two in the front seat and two in the back. Trees are being
cut for lumber and otherwise tortured and imperiled. It’s the single greatest barrier to success. In
truth, I wish I was still lying in bed with someone’s unsuitable mother. Reporters crowd around.
Although no one seems to be listening – or, if listening, understanding – I keep repeating where
the comma goes. The four gray men climb out of the gray car. I’m sharing a bus shelter with
people I won’t ever see again. Stigmata appear on feet and hands. God showers down bread.