I was busking with my autoharp, singing Christmas songs in February, trying to stay warm by pretending. If I'd had a friend or a blanket, maybe a shoe without a hole, maybe a sock or a job, I might have made it through that night. Instead the shop clerk found me in the morning and called the police. Not having heard my performance, they determined that there had been no foul play. I had no identification, so they took me away and made me disappear. The detective kept the autoharp, but he never played it.
I'd never really believed in transmigration of the soul, or the soul for that matter. When, only an instant after shivering to stillness on that sidewalk, I opened my infant eyes and looked up at that smiling woman, this thought occurred to me only briefly, and then forgetfulness wrapped me warmly and everything was better. Much better this time.
If you pretend to know how it works, that's okay. In the end, it either works or it doesn't. In the end, it either is or it isn't. The end.
Hello, friends. Tell me how you are.
Later. Love.
