The air is thick with gods, crowded streets rife with them, an infestation of divinity, "the servant keeping class." What shape wants them? Memory is money and what wind wants to do with it is scatter. Wind doesn't. Want doesn't. Assembles the materials for bodies drifting through the past on rubber rafts, with plastic oars they don't know how to use. Blank, wounded, or rendered otherwise helpless. Justice admires John but never tells him so (better to break than to be broken), establishing a proper format for suffering. So many laborers have elapsed, "the torturable classes" singing Deus. Singing Without money we'll all die. They've all died. History leaves no witnesses, a when and why, a where and what became of them. In exile Andromache's handmaid builds a miniature Troy with toothpicks and superglue, with matchsticks from a story that she read. A useless brilliant thing with tinfoil and walls and someone rolls over it in his sleep. The notes read that is Not loved, or I shall totally remove. Or Be wealthy, that is Not my people. With us. I was. In me. Draw near. Head bowed, still thinking and.