I said, "I'm a bit concerned, the prophet says, Your wife will become a prostitute in the city." She stopped, a bit miffed. "Memories tend to flatten over time." I agreed. "This all sounds like a thoughtless wish for an empty bedroom." She added, "Or a famine of hearing the words of g*d." I realized, once again, "A large part of my joy is not being where I am supposed to be when I am supposed to be there. Wherever there may be." She smiled and said, "Welcome to the other side of popping into a reality not your own."
An experiment: put the face of the quarter moon on the rising sun to see if there really is a deck of cards inside a cutout Bible that the holy man after Sunday service pulls off his top shelf with news of a bottle of the good stuff to pass the deal and begin again the game contrived from birth to see who crosses the start line last running the wrong way with one hand raised waving to the crowd and in the other holding the queen of spaced.