the good angels all stood about in the wardrobe, wiggling their fingers in moth-eaten coats, while the hardboiled eggs (such frightful gossips!) whispered lies about crocodile skulls to one another. they said that it was smiling, for instance, while it was really more of a smirk- they said the cherry harvest was bad this year, & that it was the great croc's fault, that it was named tick-tock & had been the very same reptile to bite off captain james hook's hand. the good angels thrust their hands in their pockets, mumbling things about the grey spaces in a system with a lack of free will, scuffing the toes of their feet in the camphor (heels never touching the ground). outside the wardrobe, outside the hotel, drowning in the sounds of the cicadas, the other angels searched for the crown KETHER, hoping at long last to end the war for succession.
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the thing about the pizza place across the street? if i went away for two decades, & came back to flatbush & went in to grab a slice? the guys would say "hey! what are you doing here! i havn't seen you in a while. you used to work in the book store that used to be across the street, right?" which is, in a way, a big part of the charm of brooklyn. it'll keep going after your gone, like a cuckoo clock, but it won't do anything crazy. places you know will still be there. other places will have become upscale or slid into the slums, but the people who work there will still go to the bar or restraunt you used to like. i don't know what i'm talking about, right? i'm working under some pretense that i belong in brooklyn, even though i've only been here for a year. but i like brooklyn. i guess eventually i'll have some legitimate right to claim it belongs to me. but as for now, i'm just the ghost that haunts it.