Get up. Feed the dog and cat. Put on "Make It Rain." Play it loud. Holler your best Tom Waits in the empty house. Let "The Day After Tomorrow" play and think about the war some more. Think about all the death in this world. The constant infliction of this, the worst affliction we know, the loss of one we love and cherish and know and maybe haven't gotten to know enough in all our life yet, upon ourselves. Death. Make more death. War constantly. Put the money we haven't put into making superior weapons and bombs and tanks into creating more prisons with inhumance policies. Yesterday, an old preacherman, Emmit, talked seriously with you about the state of the world and especially America and the real possibility of the hard, bad times ahead. He also told you about his revelations and his call to the ministry, which you asked to hear. One line from the song stands out. "Tell me how does God choose? Whose prayers does he refuse?." Start the album over. Listen to "Top of the Hill." Start to get angry again. Go outside under the cold gray swags of sky. Watch as a stranger's black cat hurries forward on to the top of the driveway and fixes you with a penetrating green gaze. Watch the cat not move as you get closer and closer. Finally, the cat moves away into the middle of the road. Looks back at you. You walk closer to it; the cat moves away a little further, looks back at you. At this point, since you're feeling a little out of your mind in a world that is clearly out of its collective mind, you think of going on like this, outside, with nothing but your corduroys on, like this cat is some familiar, some messenger, leading you to some revelation somewhere. You decide to try to stay sane or act sane, and turn your back on the cat and its Gaimanesque intimations. Guess you'll never know. You pull out the Times Herald Record. You were hoping for yesterday's. Where did it go. Inside, it had Annamary Smith Larkin on the obituaries and you couldn't believe it. Her whole life. Your whole life which her life was always a part of. Over. Just print on the pages. Lists of accomplishments. Staring at it, in silent awe, as you tried to eat. In your box today is the Sunday, the Sunaday, newspaper. Fat. American. With Pope Palpatine with his one action figure pose, the arms out in front somewhere between a push and an imitation of Christ and the head forward and the lucky me smile on his face. I don't hate the Pope. I don't hate Catholics or catholicism. I just don't want to see the pope sometimes. I want to see Jesus, but He won't show himself to me. Walk back inside. Look at the paper, which your brother would have devoured in one sitting, with a couple other papers, a big unhealthy breakfast purchased from downtown, and several cups of black coffee. Look at the top.