thoughtful monster. I am worried by how much, and often how long, people can stay without doing the right thing to change everything for the better and for everybody, or even just for themselves. Pray for me too please Saint-Mary. I beg you. I read too much. I slept too little. I worked too badly. I hoped too blindly. I bleed too long. I wasn't taught to Pray. You taught me. I mean... I am 27 years old when that happened. I read a lot. A lot, like, I stopped reading when the high-school's librarian told me that I should read less, after I bring her back Nietzsche's Beyond good and evil, the day after I borrowed it. And it started overing the encyclopedia Larousse from the 70's before I was a middle schooler. With, in between, the countless Science & life magazine, the French "Nature", a maximum of comics books, and the usual at that point, cartload of all sorts of books an avid reader use to read. I unintentionally became a noticed reader in school. Like a pinball high-score! The whole classroom looking at you, looking as surprised as me. One of the teachers has to say a few words to introduce your results, in terms of speed reading plus text comprehension. Something like an adult John Fitzgerald Kennedy. I heard he was a "blink-paragraphe" reader. There is techniques. I know that I must tell the world about that Science defying apparition. So I write Maire de Tours and I sent it to the Mayor and the towns newspaper. December 29th, by night, Saint-Mary informs me that they believe me: "They are going to persecute you". Boom! I proved to the whole word that God exists. Nobody can honestly say that God don't exist anymore. Today January 31, 2014, they still are persecuting me. With the hundreds of Prophecies/Miracles that followed this first Act, my name still appear in none a newspaper, none a web page. Nowhere. None a word. Nada! I don't even have a family anymore. And I had four cousins so tall we could have been a basket-ball team if it wasn't for me. They all became invisible, if not hysterical. But I have a son. And he is a classy sweetheart. I hope it is going for us to spend time together. I don't know why I am telling you all this. Say it if I am boring you.
Saint-Mary: A concerned woman.
?!. A concerned woman? Heavens. I can't recall if I once used that adjective to describe her in my prayers. I recall that I tweeted Mary-Magdalene Wikipedia's page a few days ago. But. I am so surprised. A woman concerned by what I do, by what is already done, and by what could be bring before God's feet? Boy, oh boy.
God: To give you the will to live.
Thank you, God. I don't see what else to say. I am impressed. A Concerned Woman. What else than capital letters to welcome her? I am going to be a person for a change. Not a problem
to get rid of.
Saint-Mary: Treat her right.
Back to poetry! I told you I spent too much time alone. You asked for me to sing love, and I am just disgracing again. But I much in love I was. A white butterfly climbed 3 floors just to see that through my window. True story! I bought seeds for wild birds again. Bread has too much salt for them. They still didn't come, but they will. Love is going to knock at my door. God I love nature! I am going to make her laugh so much. Never an insult. Never an humiliation. Never a reason to scream and shout. Smiley all the time. Oh God, save my heart. Make it YOU, please. I'll reduce all the suffering I can, fighting for Faith, they'll just have to say YES. That is what I'll do till my last breathe. I will not ask for I must let come. I keep on recycling. Glass, plastic, lightbulbs, anything! I'll keep on jogging. To the compost pile! I mean when I'll have managed to build a setting around the diamond she is. But even if it's only white paper flowers, she will have them! Love is sweet. Proofs of love even sweeter. I love you more. I love you morer. Prose poetry. Proetrier. This is it. I am inventing words anew. Thick paragraphs! Raging rivers. Deafening bridges and talking salmons. Grayish mustaches gleefully fishing, and rocks with teeth. She's got to be entertained! At moment she will not know what to say, but her smile will have sang it all a long time ago. What a bliss. Love, eventually. Till the end. What a motivation. Music in the morning; tomorrow's morning advice from The Sky! Do not die my heart. I beg you so.
https://instagram.com/p/j-HtOeEMJ3/
It's Monday. Are you there? No? It's ok. I'll talk to myself. I didn't wrote since Friday. But I sneaked into the 48th Super Bowl. I can't believe I still didn't send a tweet to the Broncos and the Seahawks. Chronicle this! Good game! But the bleachers are asking for more.
God: Give them more.
Yes, Father.
More love. The bleachers are asking for more love. Bingo! I've got a tweet to cheep.
https://instagram.com/p/j-6lJEEMHB/
Heavens, it's Tuesday! And there's no Wi-Fi for the moment. A King has to work. I'll imgur later.
Miranda: Totally poetic.
Oh, so you are loving this text! And me who was about to read it again from the first line to see if there are things to tweak. Say nothing! I know. Let me sing. Black. Glittery black. There is a black like that. It is not evil. It is mystic. A symbolic color. Mystic Jesus. A black that is glittery white gold somehow. A fairy in a sparkle, in the cosmic immensity. It's you in that Qantas uniform. By night. Outdoors in the sky. Tall like a constellation. Voila. I see you. Totally poetic. An arm like a night flight. A serene gesture. Beware of the delusional. Long live the sparkle. She indeed has a fairy inside. Girlies too have things to be taught. Let's teach the smiley state of mind. Not forcing kids to talk. The first time is a grace. You talk like an important woman. Silence in your heart. You are maybe reading me too fast. This is a sweet song. You are right.
https://instagram.com/p/kAafzBEMO6/
My mouth is asleep. I mustn't forget to buy gum tomorrow.
Thursday. Parsec 32. Spaced date +34 57 81. Heavens! I just spring cleaned the closet. But where do you throw old pomade tubes for them to be disposed ecologically? I got to go to the pharmacy I guess. Can't wait to see them all advertising their spot with a blue Mary instead of a caducei. And the electronics? Remote controls like we were octopuses. Hello poetrix! The folks of Emmaüs got to become a recycling center too. Instead of only sorting what they are going to sell to under the poverty line people like me, tac, jobs.
Today was a beautiful day. Here the rencontre du jour. At Emmaüs Tours Nord. Exactly where Tours court made me go for a 100 hours of community service. Two sweaters: 8€. Four shirts: 10€. Two pairs of trousers: 4€. And I am dressed like a Prince. Thank you people! I put on the table my bag with all these clothes. We start digging together. I didn't kept the count. Something like twenty euros I say to the clerk. Toc. She takes her pen. Her counterfoil book. Crack! There's 5€ wrote down on the ticket she hands me. No doubt. She is even better than me at doing Mirandamatics. Faster. I better say nothing and all. She sends me to the cashier. It's almost an order. She is not going to take any reclamations about how much I got to pay. She's having fun. It's almost 5pm. The depot is going to close. Her last chopper smiles like a party starter. She is in her late fifties. Petite. From North Africa. Gosh she'd like to see people smile like that all the time. Goods days like that all the time in the neighbor. She is breathing with her heart. Like I said, better don't spoil the moment with false modesty. There is good people, there is a God, and she is glad to express it. Even Annick recognized me this time. They are beautiful unpaid helpers. They come to volunteers several hours per weeks, among the community service ones like I once was, and the folks of Abbot Pierre. I instagramed my way back while surfing over the town's river.
https://instagram.com/p/kFySFCEMF3/
I am going to believe that you just called me Tiger.
Miranda: Talk me poetry again.
It's Friday!
Miranda: Put the hour.
It's Friday, February 7, 2014, and it is 7:36pm paris Time. There is the Olympic ceremony live on the flat TV of The 3 Kings. Nobody is watching it. The sound is off. The laptop of the bar is playing an I love you I love you Rock&Roll from the seventies. David Bowie certainly. The blackboard on the wall has now a text and is signed The King Unicorn, and Led Zeppelin's Good Times Bad Times is now snugging the atmosphere; I am trying to do a decent ph
oto of Mark since days. He's a fox. I worried him with my sudden orange juices. You stopped drinking, David? You're ok? Same with Antoine. I am back on jogging, don't worry guys, I'll drink a beer on Saturday, when I will deserve it! Poetry creates. Foxes have no time left for something else. Whiskers pic. It is the Fox's form. This country is now flooding on tv. Paddocks are seeing it too. Wasp nests, spawning grounds, falconeries, anthills, lombriducs and silk farms, cynodromes even, if they exist in English anyway! It is unity. The beautiful harmony. Foxes house is a form. Vocabulary has it.
Miranda: What are we gonna do?
So much, it's supermystic. Don't jump off the spiritual train. Classics also. We are going to need a camera. And so much more. Ends and beginnings. Eternal moments. New games. Love sounds only. Miracle works. You will see clocks following me. The punishment is to do not love.
https://instagram.com/p/kFSs_TgVuT/
https://instagram.com/p/kKfGGTEMMv/
And this is now Sunday evening. We are page 16.
Miranda: Continue. I will sell your book.
Sweet, thank you. I