freedom. i had the chance. i had escaped twice from the grip of soft hands, stifled passion, firm lips. i had put on the collar in my heart. but not my body. i had taken a number in the ante-room of freedom. and i waited, but no one called my number. i could have complained to the clerk, pestered at the counter, but instead, i sat straight, while a soft hand grasped mine. And I fell.
And now, freedom is an internal working. but then, perhaps i had been in the wrong line to begin with.
I've chosen a new line. I have my number, but I will wait little. If not chosen, I will seek another place. And if the divine cannot control his servants well enough to harvest me, he should beware. i may set up my own office. and i shall take all comers. and my greatness may become the greatness we sought for.
the fields are white. There are few workers. Do we need a thresher? Shall i be the miller and the stone and the pay collector? And from the chaff, perhaps I shall spin gold for vestments.
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