Page of Wands

I can fall in love as many as six or seven times a day. But, you see, there are so many beautiful women in the world, that to love someone who isn’t perfect seems such a waste.
I walk down every street I see every day I can, and every day in every way I’m growing more unpleasant. I must be. I look into the eyes of a hundred women and see nothing.
I wonder if Jesus had this problem.
My memories stick to one another; I remember in gobs and lumpy strings, things which were years apart.
South in winter, the mountains are grey and snowless. There I can play God with the rabbits, and watch the spiders leap through the grass. The saints are inside, tucked up safely in their golden cells. Sometimes Sara calls, and tells me the children are running out of shoes.
My God, but I was beautiful once. I had everything. I could walk down any street and there would be somewhere to stop, some warm smile to crawl inside.
Show me the way to go home.