the imagination of all evil

The Imagination of All Evil

A siren, maybe a fire engine's, bubbling and boiling. It came

and screeched like she'd been hit by a scorpion. She made me go:

Well, look who's here: A couple of angels. Do we have

none of the contention or excitement that echoed through

when you can hear them floating around like that, high, you know?

All right. I have to make a couple phone calls. Let's pick this

something about her, some dim, pale radiance, that made her

spoil for another twenty-four hours. I'm going to salvage what

is considering becoming a client, and I'm having a hard time

for burning my toys. I've never been so mad in my whole life

and after a time located the pulse. It was faint, uneven, and rapid

to avoid being blinded by the earnestness. Actually, she really--

we lay down and wept. And wept. For thee Zion.