Cat's Cradle

On San Lorenzo, the heat sits still. Papa Monzano smiles with a hook. The birds go silent. The water looks kind. People learn their little prayers by rote. Live by the foma that make you brave and kind and healthy and happy. Live by the foma that make you brave and kind and healthy and happy. Tiger got to hunt, bird got to fly. Man sits down and asks, Why? Why? Why? Bokonon’s book hides in plain sight. “All of the true things I am about to tell you are shameless lies.” That is the joke, and the mercy, too: the banned thing feeds the faithful. “Busy, busy, busy.” “No damn cat, and no damn cradle.” Granfalloons and Boko Maru. Ice-nine waits in the teeth of the world — a cold little ending with a human name. I learned how a lie can walk like a hymn in the aisle, and a human-made heaven with a match at the throat. Live by the foma that make you brave and kind and healthy and happy. Live by the foma that make you brave and kind and healthy and happy. Tiger got to hunt, bird got to fly. Man got to sit and wonder why. No damn cat. No damn cradle.