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-- File: Praise Allah.txt

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Call this a teaser for part three.










    "Allah be praised!"

  Throughout the course of my recurrent nightmares and constant 
visions, a few people, places, or things have kept watch over me 
along the way, always tormenting, always testing, always 
hoarding, and allowing no safety from their boundless greed. All 
progress of every kind has been hindered by their presence, 
whether in science or nature, duty or pleasure, unfinished heaven 
or crumbling hell. It was brought to my attention that one might 
decide to take matters into his own hands when in situations as dire 
as those faced in these last redundant decades. Until now I have 
deferred to a higher power, the voice of classic reason, and have 
allowed it to whistle its never-ending tune unabated: do nothing, be 
patient, do nothing. And I did, with a genuinely full heart and 
interest in the grand End of the Game.

  But now the soils of my patience have eroded and I find myself 
once-again bare faced and beaten down in the devastating divine 
wind that is �Mother�s Touch.� It wears away my faces, buries my 
tombs beyond remembrance, obscures my effigy�s, hounds my 
liars, announces my thieves, and tears away at my wall of secrets. 
Oh Mother. Will you ever cease to burden me with your words, 
bind me with your glances, or hush me with your laughter. I wish 
you would die, so that the wind would end, and my tears could 
once again be seen. I have never in my life asked anything of you 
with intent, so do not feel surprised that my only returned shot be 
one sent straight to the heart. Open that unused, unsoiled space and 
bare it to me. I like this game no longer.

  The tape of time is winding down and I feel the blocked sections 
luffing and tugging the adjacent fibers. Heavy rocks carry with 
them the Old Weight, the Momentum of Arrogance. But even they 
can understand their misplaced existence and avert their eyes from 
me as they pass. Mothers, reach to me no longer, your light is 
suffocating. I do not wish to die yet, for you or your husbands. 
This game was merely the antechamber to your womb, and to your 
flaming, scorching, machine heart.

  The cruel uncle who drew me from you secretly behind the house 
has never raised his voice, no matter how hard I called out to him 
in his time of need. I do not know if he is still alive, Mother, but I 
fear he is. He watches patiently while I wear down. Only a lover or 
a madman could hold out so long. Soon I will find out which. 
Trapped in your game, I lost sight of you entirely, and now I go to 
face the Chindi alone.

  This text is written on strips of human skin, still alive on the backs 
of men willing to rush into your mouth and choke you. I hold their 
leashes in a deadman�s-grip, only a single finger yet hanging free. 
You and my uncle both will see to it that I wait endlessly, and I 
accepted this damnation ages ago, (as you have seen). But I ask 
this: Eternal Mother, who�s gamesmanship is greater? Yours or 
mine? Who will outlast whom?

                                         -Love, Alie






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