I can’t keep up with myself. I’ve tried vanes, sun dials, plotting wells. I put a thousand pebbles, feathers, crystals on the shelf – no more scrying with poker chips and shells. The best call at the table is, you lose. The best prediction in life is, you die. So? So what if I cruise for a bruise with this scattering of cards, sigh of upgathered wings, reshuffling of things? I’m not trying to throw the game, I just wanted to build houses instead of peacock tails, haunted not strutting, filled with wet clay and kick wheels – not Mings.…