I saw a man today walking down the street in front of the old house I’ve taken residence in. He had hair the texture of wild flowers and eyes shaped like bats; he walked with a shamble. Mrs. Hurchur told me to just leave him be. She said that I had “no place interferin’ with what the good lord coughed up from his blacklung ridden chest,” but I approached him anyway and asked if his were the hands of our maker.

I do not recall those in particular being the words that I had expected to pass forth from my lips.

He sputtered and spat, but if he answered my question, his words were too malformed for me to understand. Being in his presence made my head buzz something awful, so I let him on his way.