“Believe,” he admonished, five times again and again, from on high, living on bugs and breadcrumbs, singing some other language to me.

And speaking of crumbs, of fallen-food not given, I knew I’d better believe in something, since such was my fate.

He stopped then -they always do- and took away his scraps and sweetly sung psalms -they always will.

So she, a magical historian of a thing, in sweet song too, recounted, “Disappear. Disappear. Disappear.”

Photo Credit: Tiger R., age 9

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