Miraculous

Could it be considered miraculous if a man were to live in bed for almost 35 years eating precious little but chocolate cake and milk and writing ream after ream of nearly insensible pornography?

And the pounding on the floor,
her ceiling,
for more cake and more Big Chief writing tablets and more pencils and
the odor of sour milk creeps down their parents’ stairs while the miracle pounds on the floor for supplies
and the miracle’s sister stands in the kitchen for just a moment, just the barest sliver of her heart’s beat,
and imagines herself just walking out the back door
and down she’d pass the little shed and through the back gate to the alley and from the alley to the street and,
in that heartbeat’s passing she can imagine
a life complete and full but,
then what?

So, which is more miraculous? A man living in a bed for 35 years, the cake, the milk and the porn or that this same man, out of all the people in the entire history of people, would be related to probably the only person on the planet who would put up with that kind of shit?



(loosely inspired by H.P. Lovecraft)