I do not know what the world is coming to. The lions are under lock and key and the rail workers’ union won’t even provide us with a decent strike. I wanted to escape the hoards of pilgrims whose importance I find negligible save for their ability to disrupt my city in ways that I could never manage. They won’t love her afterwards either. Pilgrims, I think, well at least they’re not missionaries but they probably are, baby missionaries, missionaries with training wheels, missionaries who start off in urban jungles and move to less savoury ones. I once had missionaries come to the door. It was like having colonialism knock on the door and politely ask if it could tell me about god. I declined. I bolted the door.
I seem to spend a lot of time with the door bolted. I wonder if it means something.