Page 22 - Haruspex

Thirty Degrees of Sagittarius
I. A generator-driven artifact, small, alien, a video-camera jammed in the nozzle.
II. Junkyard of crumbling scooters inscribed with purple !ame print.
III. An interjection of incandescent fury: "This is bullshit.”
IV. It goes without saying that nothing in the room is quite the same as when you entered.
V. The melancholy of a custodian of a forbidden item as the sun rises to illuminate the text.
VI. Two hospital bags stuffed with strange letters of the alphabet, some in rhyme and others in truth. VII.A dingy boogie trap of rivets and !ash-points: a neon Coca-Cola sign scrawled with graffiti, a disused
red-light district.
VIII. A 2MB music $le from the Titanic soundtrack, when activated, sets off a Rube Goldberg machine
without intention and sights set on double jeopardy.
IX. An old lamp on wheels, dragging strands of potato peel through the city.
X. Rosewater for Gulab Jamun—pillow !uff and jump rope; a couple arms akimbo.
XI. Magic is real.
XII. Sepulchral waters, where the People's Republic of The Singularity paws along in endless pockets of
tranquility.
XIII. Spiked waterbed with a rickety piece of cherry wood.
XIV. Nine empty vodka bottles, tipped over. Three posts that have "Bad enough" written on them.
XV. The last moments of your father, trapped in a synthetic hide.
XVI. The location of the afterlife uncovered in the software of a cell phone in a Walmart lost & found.
XVII. (at this point you can dance on the tips of the red balloons, if you'd like, but honestly, you're better off
$nding someone to keep you company)
XVIII. A pink beanbag chair, lodged between a ceramic urn and a dictionary of slang.
XIX. A star carved from a single slice of bread while a faceless sibling prepares egg in a hole at dawn.
XX. Someone hands you a pamphlet entitled “The Polish Blues” with a number scrawled on the back.
XXI. A pregnant woman sits cross-legged on a steel drum at the bottom of a 6 story building before the $rst
snow.
XXII. An adamantine drone: the Pied Piper of virus and dream.
XXIII. A copy of the monochrome song David and Goliath wrote together on the back of the Necronomicon. XXIV. Crimson Hotel; in the bathhouse, where everyone is naked and everything is just fucking hot.
XXV. Red Vial of Light's last breath.
XXVI. Fridge full of Rye Whiskey and Air Jordans.
XXVII. Rubber bands around the bear's paws do nothing but you bind them in hibernation anyways as
though they were lobsters.
XXVIII. Six steps and a secret passage into the basement. XXIX. Tiny coin-casket with a square of latex inside it. XXX. Listening to music, writing in blood.