Written by Pointer
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Tags: Angel, Baby, Memory

Saturday, 3 March 2007

Buster could feel nothing. Nothing that made him feel what he felt when the Baby Angel was with him. This was no real surprise to him since nothing was what he was used to feeling--at least ---it was ---until that time that in his memory seemed timeless
When he really got desperate he would rummage through the filthy back of his van to find some vestigial trace of her presence...some sign that he had not imagined this whole thing. He grasped on to a prickly burr that he had never noticed before and thought of it as one jewel in a kind of crown she would wear-Nature's Canyon Queen...then a stray beret-had to be hers he concluded since he rarely had passengers and never one who would pin her hair to her head with such a torturous clip.
One day in his pitiful excavation he spied a black binding of what looked like an old-fashioned composition book hidden way under the passenger seat next to some empty tonic water bottles. Sure enough it proved to be a black and white notebook with the woven binding- the kind that caused a torn out page to release its connecting page from far into the book to inconveniently drop out-free and boundless. Buster held the volume to his breast and carried it like treasure into his hovel to pour over the writing within. The moment his eyes fell upon the page he knew the ballet of letters that he had once witnessed in the diary of the woman he had almost decided was an illusion. Page one began with a kind of religious treatise entitled:" I-REALS". The rest of that night was consumed for this crazy clown by what soon became a feverish reading of the Baby Angel's revelation.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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