The world is my
oyster it is my every fucking thing. It’s true: no one put me up to this. I lost my own faith myself. You convert, you faulty ruin, you ripped schism, you foe.
No loss. No skin off my back. Plangent kings once said wool with cables, a dozen, they’re easy, you could learn them in an afternoon. I did. I strummed my stung and swollen fingers upon your strings. I fled burning cities. I flew unseen coops.
I flashed cops and mooned sailors and how did you repay me: you said marry me you said Massachusetts or Connecticut you said California you said fucking Iowa! and I listened, and I packed my garter and I saw angels and I heard you say it: yes yes yes. We did. 
The city was burning—or it wasn’t.
I am the city and you are my work of great mischief.
What They Tell You
The world is my