Mad, not quite, when brought in, ago, the world ajar, a jar. The people call her poet, with a big P. She does not paper pen, sits mostly frozen on her bed. Her father wails, laments; tries to forgive a kind of sin; each time he visits he cries out. This day the poet’s father comes around, the men in white coats grab him by his arms. They are tall and lanky, he is round & short. Strange propositions bubble from his mouth; they sound potentially like fact or fabrication. “Blessed are those who sit?” “Why do you refer to them as idiots when you talk about this place? They are children who refuse to speak.” The centogenerian is sat in a crib. His style is baby, skin is smeared with ashes, sometimes he salutes straight & evil forward. C thinks of molecules. C does not speak, hardly at all, but thoughts slam into & out of her head, on overlapping moments.  “If the molecules were particles and not individual people, your revolution might have a chance of happening.” The man who came in father, screaming mad man, now preaches mad with twisted arms.  “Wednesdays here are more boring than Sundays it’s the Master’s fault. Wednesday is the Day of the Master’s seminar.” The Poet sits dumb on her bed; better than speaking, & making from her no good words a kind of sense. The Father stands & exclamates, gesticulates, because, for one, he has important things to say; & two, they are not coming out, he sounds like some absurd cartoon. The centogenerian sits put & playful, pouts, & darkens sometimes someone’s passing brow &/or causes belly vertigo; his wasted frame is slight & nearly levitates, but oozes, also, remains of ancient evil from its pores,

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