Are you a fortune teller? Can you tell me how to find the nearest path to enlightenment, however drenched with wrath, consistently wrapped around my little finger, a string no bigger than a C from a bass summoned by the god of thunder, a constant reminder that hind sight is 20/20 even when I have plenty of voices to tell me otherwise, to tell me how to die and live in the same breath. Nine lives of constant glances over the shoulder, wondering when the thin string will continue to wrap around my body, slithering past navel to neck where even the slightest cough sends trickles down my spine. How many times will I fight to make music, a serenade of notes no human can hear, decibels sounding to the ears of fancy chinchillas and vampire bats, out hunting each other for a midnight snack, consciously choosing to avoid tried and true sustenance, leaves and fruits and insects? But how many of us would attempt the oddest obstacles, climb the strangest pinnacle in the face of a hooded man holding a blade, eerily reflecting the exact shade of skin enrobing my body, collapsing on the nearby grass, a simple modification of carcasses from centuries of passing. I wonder, are you a fortune teller?
Or the same hooded man around my neck?
