Everybody knows I’m married to Liberty. It has to be this way so the branch won’t break when the feathers fall in the field as they always do, out-of-the-blue, making us wonder; making us seek a culprit. We insist there’s a fang-faced mongrel! We insist he Exists. Touché, I exit early for a funeral, hang out in darkened halls, because that’s my need. I need sustenance. I mean I’m grubbing on some food at a funeral. I admit everything by admitting nothing. It has to be this way. I’ll eat the moon, -its shadowy face.