Truth Betolling

The pharmacy of today's Psyche is busy. Counting pills, printing names, carrying facelessness. Tomorrow Cupid will tool his frost, breathing death on dying grass, as if there was no one to listen. Today is moss and tomorrow's loss. Can you tell I am not at work?

"Did I miss you in the darkness, kind sir?" asked she. "No," he replied, "you were misplaced. That is all." "My medicine?" again. "We (none of us) have faces. You see, we don't need them, and the the names you write are not ours, not even our script. Begone."

And she dropped all the facelessness like an old shoe. She turned the coin and left it for the next. The next apple cheek and cran- berry tongue to be eaten bloodless in the dark. Those were the instructions she left. Juice in the night for never tomorrow.