I forgot how to write. I am assaulted by my life.  I have never had such a high energy interactive performance, er, whatever, performative interaction, such a way of being with people, fortune telling, crystallomancy, I have never been more myself or closer to people. I could just tell them what I see. because they were there for fortunes. Quick reserve me all the right 800- numbers. The magic was inside the people, the ‘performance’ took place inside myself and the other. As everything does, it insists. I ask myself in earnestness, in near rage, how could this have been stolen from me? from my mind, stamped out squelched, could I ever retrieve it? ever!? I will never let go of it, I can tell, there will always be the thin, varnish-smelling memory of the tainting. That’s where I’m weak, and it’s also how I won debate club. So I make it like this… how is it that it wasn’t stolen from me? how is it whole? I mean to describe it myself, to be in it with my mind, which is what it is to make it real. I go to the photos of S Fortune Matrix, knocking, in near tears, please, tell me how it was, tell me, did it happen? I see the ball rolling under my hand, blinking, and iridescing in front of the apricot glow salt lamp, always a new story, and endless supply of fissures and plates and planes, four or five little black clouds like Tiny Chicklets, and one large black spot, because everything has one, which is purple and ridged in the inside of the crystal ball like a chunk of the moon petrified in the quartz. The stories, the clear spot, the floating square, I saw through my eyes seeing through their eyes inside themselves, I saw the rain on the man’s grandmother’s windowpane and knew him right away, that he had manifested himself exactly as planned, meticulously, and without compromise, and that he had reached even further into those dreams until they were squozen empty, and now he did not know what to do next about his sense of life, and I took him through the maze I saw in the crystal ball, told him about the door, and then a key was spoken through me, not that I wouldn’t have thought it, but that I did, or it was thought through me, Edgar, good god. Right down to the every last thing, I saw them almost all of them, it worked, the eyes of love worked, of course, but how well, who knew. I remember that I had never felt more myself, and then poink. I go to my eyes again, doctor my eyes, I go to my eyes.