Probability and Statistic

There are marathons to run. Punish the bones to strengthen muscles. There are diseases to cure. New ones to make up. So they can sell their drugs.

I'll just do nothing.

The dark so sure. Like birthday candles on a cake that won't extinguish. Rows of orange eyes that never blink. Coaxing wrists to turn over. Convincing bottles to open. There are lives to live. Everywhere. But no one is.

I was speaking with the wolf. Trying to find out how he blew those houses down. He said it was easy because that's what they wanted. To be the victim.

My interview with red riding hood came to the same conclusion. She was knew it wasn't grandma. That basket of goodies was never intended for her.

The lie is the best part of sex once you're forced to talk to yourself afterwards. That I could be that cold. Like no one's real. Or I'm not real to them.

The differences being slight enough that I can overlook them.

Some say god is a flea market. Shop around for the best bargain. Others say he's a department store. Take the escalator. Try on something that you'd never wear and you'll meet him in the fitting room.

But I know god is just another excuse lost people use to prove they're not.