Letters of Saint Paul (4):

Paul of Tarsus

919 Pax Ave.

Damascus, TK, 43747 

I left the house. It was looking at me the wrong way. It asks too many questions that I don’t want to answer. Where are you? I don’t know. You’re late. You’re late, you’re late, you’ve always been late. You’re my religion, you know. Don’t tell the Lord. He gets jealous, as I told you. He is not a human, and so He does not have a heart. That’s why He’s always angry when I choose somebody’s heart over Him. I collect hearts sometimes. In jars I take to the woods with me, to catch them like fireflies. Then I take the nicest ones and put them on the mantlepiece. But you already know that. You’ve known for a while; that’s why you’re so determined to keep yours from me. But trust me, it’s easier just to look at them. They’re so useless sometimes, so painful in the chest cavity, that I sometimes thinking they were made for decoration after all. I’m writing this half-drunk. The Lord took all the wine in my bag from the house and turned it into His son’s blood, and now you can see my path like a thin Red Sea behind me. So yeah, I left our house behind. I’m going with the Lord to talk about Christianity. I figure I’ll find you along the way. I don’t worry about the old place anymore. It’s rented out to the ghosts now.

Sometimes, Paul

P.S. I brought Gregory’s heart along, so if you want to see it when we meet, just ask.

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