9(sic)-11-93 Professor X's Cartes Game

What can I say?  It's Thursday.  Mysterious, yet predictable caller, see.  I can't help but understand what has happened.  How funny can it get.  I saw a circle today, what was it.  Ah, yes, a year, the season brought on that fond memory. This led to another.  It's the one I try to block, though by writing about it, how can I avoid thinking such things.

That's where truth of mind can be found:  when you've caught yourself reading with other pressings going on.  If the words suddenly turn to gibberish, you'd notice, but you're not really reading, taking it in.  A layer.

     Scratch, the old man, was writing a book,
     his heltered young minions chose to take a small look,
     With a tempest of fire the spine broke,
     The pages displaced amidst tendrils of smoke.
     Cracked in red glow ran a list of names,
     Cardinal sins and Bishops' dark games,
     And here across was a symbol of doom,
     That shuddered in fear as he entered the room.
     With a clasp of his hand he dismissed his lot,
     And returned to his writing, with little a thought.