Morning ritual:
After extracting blood, Lolo takes his seat beside the stairwell, between the porch and altar portals, and rubs his bruised knees, kindling forrest fires in silenced prayer. He scans from West to East Asian Standard Time, left to right lesion, as if to say, "It's just like whirling with a blurry Polaroid from Haran," as Lola pivots, tending to her suburban tire garden. I keep reassuring them that I'm devlish on the outside, angelic inside, but he just won't stop fucking shaking, does not stop to kiss the sun of mercy. We're expecting guests — less 'n less. Bok Choy vey.
