The Absent Hand

I understand how this works now. We are blowing up our current home to create a warp tunnel to New York. Last time, when we went to Paris, we used the power of the Starlight Parade. We do not have that luxury this time, and this trip is not a temporary voyage. This time we are taking everything, the entire ship, and transforming it into a Penske truck. This is not just a holographic hang. Hell hangs above the desk. My father, whom we wanted for assistance, whom the city wanted for assistance, Moriarty if you like, might not even qualify. Here we are going into areas of life beyond my parents’ so many more year’s worth of experience. Who are we becoming?

This whole thing could go down. The ship could crash. SS Appropouture sending out an SOS. Back in the valley of Saints. The jealous bubble of the church, holding us back from pursuing our dreams.

There are 17 miles left in the tank.

I feel the void energy, relieving me, as I walk past the Peruvian restaurant which is playing music into the porch and a clamor of customers reverberating against their clinking glasses. This is possible, the faith of a mustard seed, my parents are not very religious.

Bulletproof by La Roux comes through the car speakers. The lanes of the road merge into one.


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