And yes, Theodora Mundi was getting one of those "barbed wire wrapped around the arm" tattoos like a Playboy model, and he thinks she caught blood poisoning from that; I had my own theories on that, of course, being an independent minded young botchagaloo. But what did I know?
Heraclitus Felix III had given a long symposium, at the end of which, he fell ill, his constitution drained. He had strings of flotsam from his gentleman scholar jowls, and he looked a bit like creeping death. The augers took one look at the situation, and took a gravely pallor, but pronounced little or nothing, as if life and death were mere trifles: this was the Tao of the augers. They themselves spent time as if it were water, and money was even less than that, as water had a nominal value in itself, some kind of hidden obscure custom among the priestly set that placed no value on the things of this world but the life and substance beyond.
Indeed, Heraclitus sang for his supper, as of the old bards and the chitlin' circuit of old, giving his thoughts to a gathered throng in exchange for his plate of beans.
I myself had taken in the games, and some augery and some other, nourishing myself while the words were not with me, letting my soul sort of spread-eagle to the universe in the open air. In the interim, I caught a quote attributed to Ulysses S Grant, "bind the nation's wounds", and some other, of one's mindset and so forth, and ministry leadership, as I was and am The Internet Missionary, and all.
What is this, I thought, of the tattoo mentioned: a sort of Tao or augery that spoke of not being beholden to this world, as of merely a "prisoner to the flesh"? An eternal soul entombed, for a mere spate of hours, in the flesh of a body, as of the Madman of Gedara, and I start chanting, "aint no grave, can hold me down". Praise the Man Jesus.
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