Status Updates From Sin

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Later, the inquest, investigation of Death. Pointless. For Death always commits the perfect murder. He has never been caught. He uses so many disguises. The face of illness. Or accident. Or violence. The list is endless. He is cruel, funny, macabre, wild, gentle. He is secret. Famous. He hides. Then leaps into full view. He is magnificent. Pathetic. Bathetic. But always, always, Death is triumphant.

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Mothers! The things they know. The things they rememeber. A life before ones own memory. No wonder we long for escape. Theyd devour us if they could.

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Later Dominick lay beside me- his long nakedness dense and heavy on the bed. Men do not look right covered in a sheet. Sheets are a womans adornment. As the nakedness moved towards me I remembered the choreography. And afterwards. My cold eye. Questioning. I wondered if, in the cold eye, he found peace

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"And what is the outward sign of this improvement?" I tried to sound mocking.
"Theres no outward sign Ruth. But I have changed. For example, I mock less."
I had been put in my place.
"Well, Hubert, your English has certainly improved. No problem with nuance anymore.
He laughed.

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No one in the world- no one knew my thoughts. God? I wondered idly. Did God know? Or knowing, care?

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When perfection is defiled it is hard to resist the pleasures of destruction, and of lies, and of concupiscence. For then the sacrifice is nothing. And so I stood, rose-coloured, beside the lily, and examined quietly the tiny thorns of my bouquet.

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