Seems Like Half My Anxiety

His Outflung Hands Traced Over The Threads Of His Rug, Passed Loop By Loop Through Some Patient Woman's Hands. Or Maybe She Hadn't Been Patient. Maybe She'd Been Tired, Or Irritated, Or Distracted, Or Hungry, Or Angry. Maybe She Had Been Dying. But Her Hands Had Kept Moving, All The Same.

I'm Not Getting It All Sorted, She Worried. I'm Not Getting It Right. You Are Brilliant, The Voice Reassured Her. It Is Imperfect. So Are All Things Trapped In Time. You Are Brilliant, Nonetheless. How Fortunate For Us That We Thirst For Glorious Souls Rather Than Faultless Ones, Or We Should Be Parched Indeed, And Most Lonely In Our Perfect Righteousness. Carry On Imperfectly, Shining Ista.

You Don't Pay Back Your Parents. You Can't. The Debt You Owe Them Gets Collected By Your Children, Who Hand It Down In Turn. It's A Sort Of Entailment. Or If You Don't Have Children Of The Body, It's Left As A Debt To Your Common Humanity. Or To Your God, If You Possess Or Are Possessed By One. The Family Economy Evades Calculation In The Gross Planetary Product. It's The Only Deal I Know Where, When You Give More Than You Get, You Aren't Bankrupted - But Rather, Vastly Enriched.

Mia Maz Glanced Aside In Concern At His Muffled Snort. "are You All Right?" "yes. Sorry," He Whispered. "i'm Just Having An Attack Of Limericks." Her Eyes Widened, And She Bit Her Lip; Only Her Deepening Dimple Betrayed Her. "shhh," She Said, With Feeling.

If You're Trying To Take A Roomful Of People By Surprise, It's A Lot Easier To Hit Your Targets If You Don't Yell Going Through The Door.