“Hopeless, I am,” Yayuk used to say whenever negativity ushered in depression. Hopeless I am, too, at this solitary moment, when Time has lost parentheses, and I, around The Presence, maintain orbit... apart without a sense of who, what, or why... my body, long decayed, having left me no alternative to existing in this awful, nullified no place. Eternally, I fear. A fix to which I may soon grow inured, as to some ignobler self whose essence merely whimpers, as insubstantially now as when I used to play its host—though noisily, still, bleating random blips of woe-is-me. Immortality ought to make one sage.
    Apropos, I recall being told that the dent above one's upper lip and underneath one's nose is nothing more nor less than the Fingerprint of God, placed there prior to birth, when the Secret of Life is whispered into every natal ear.
    “Shush,” He then pronounces, enjoining us to silence, the Secret lost from memory unto the grave—at which point each and everyone finds re-Enlightenment.
    Well?

Alexandria...
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