In the house that is the mother's house
In the house of the mother there is the mother and all of the furniture. You visit. You sit amongst the furniture, amongst the mother. You are served crescent-shaped things made of meat and sugar. You begin to tell a story. The story hangs in the air, awaiting judgment. Ultimately it succumbs to gravity. Ultimately it is unimportant. You go to the room that is half of another room. There are rows and rows of books about god. You sit in the middle of this room that is half of another room and you feel god behind all of the spines, you feel god lodged in your own spine, you have become a book, also. In the house of the mother it is never too long before you become something that belongs to the mother, a book or a wrench or a passing idea. It's time for tea. The mother observes the time that is for tea. When crumbs fall from the mouth of the mother, the mother uses her finger to put them back. There is no finger more capable than the finger of the mother. It has indicated you. You await instructions.