Base of command, headquarters no. 4. Does that mean anything to you, asks Burroughs.

I nod my head in meditation.

They may take your eye, he says. They may take your testicles. They may even take your soul. But they cannot take the progression of bibles.

I’ve got to keep moving, I say.

This period, everyone’s hibernating.

The thing is the size of a lavender bud.

There is a public space and so many private ones.

I am king of being publicly private

Base command, center of operations. The middle of a tornado. Cyclone, twister. Got a tongue that ticks time. We can catch the brief snippets.

Little baby, your daddy tries. You’ve got to give him that, as the police come banging on the door. They want to take me away from you. Don’t let em. Stick up for me like I stuck up for you. Shot it right up in there. The ace in the spade. Corner pocket of the one eyed jack.

Are you going to be a boy or a girl?

It don’t matter anymore.

I’ve learned my lesson.

I’ll never make that mistake again.

Grey is the color of this family pride.

I’m wearing a headband as we speak with a beard, and I’m about to go sit down to use the toilet.

They can’t take that away from us.

Base camp standard of operation. No they can’t take that away from us. The entity in the stairwell. I can’t see it anymore. It doesn’t mean that it’s gone.
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