It's a little late but it ought to be here.

The muezzin calls, a congregation forms and in some other guise I watch them kneel, bow lower and lower. Sink into the marble and under it.

The black and white pattern and the plaster blue walls echo in my head as the bells ring. A bhangi with giant shades throws flowers at me and curses me with promise of devotion. I am to be a slave, this unearthly squeal of music tells me.

He splits apart as I fall on my back, the floor smelling of rotting flowers and granite. My head rests against a pew and I fall asleep as the stained glass window people sing to me.

When there’s nowhere else to run,

Is there room for one more sun?

I am me now. In a room full of people screaming, jumping up and down. climbing over, kissing my feet, pushing me downward, into mouths and hands and I scream with them eyes closed. I am crazy and it’s only 5 minutes into this. The stained glass window people bound in, jump about me and robes, sheets, cake flies around. I see amber liquids and spiked sodas. I drink, all of it apparently. All of it.

Happy Birthday to me.

Happy Birthday to me.

Oh, well. Hell. I’m older but it’s nice. I scream and I kiss, a million mouths and hug a few. I want to cry but alas, tears don’t express well. Nobody is as happy as this feeling, including me.