I, PRIESTESS (9)
The trip to the tip left me sick with unease, so I shot a few pigeons and cut down their trees.
I couldn't dismiss, though, the sight of that trash piled up in those crates; it gave me a rash. (I've applied steroid paste to calm my hives down but consumption ain't cured by prescribed cortisone.)
A culture of waste, that's what we've become (a secular place built on late-capitalism). A terrible place with no space for free-thinking (therein lie the pleasures of drugs and hard-drinking).
I wish I believed in some god or some system, where numbers made sense or bad luck had a reason. A meaning to life, a blue-print or template; I'd pray for forgiveness and accept my own fate.
But, when I trod - by mistake - on a snail on the lawn the random nature of life left me feeling forlorn.
