Six

Somewhere beneath the sheaves of  blank or written upon yellow and white paper, the gadgets and gizmos, the higgledy-piggledy books and the clothes all tumbled together, I imagine there is wood thirsty for wax and a carpet gasping for life to be sucked out of it.

On this the Feast of the Epiphany, her rational is to point to the starry sky and mutter about gifts being found in a mucky stable.

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