…but I was not surprised, do not ask me why, it all seemed natural at the time. Not to deviate from the main plot of my story but, as you see, I am perfectly aware. I have been perfectly, acutely aware that I must finish the task of the Hexastix. It is my burden, but also a delight. It also gave me a fright because the Black Sarah, or, Sarah the Black came onto the scene. Kind of fucked up my reality. I had a running dialoque of being in the present moment I am, I am , I am HERE! But, the, then. About the Hexastix. I have to wait until the lab rat adjusts to his medicine. The lab rat is me. I am not fat. HA! Yet, not me, me because I know I am a human being put on this Earth with Brilliant seisms of earthly delights before you all, proper! I was distracted, I was. When the footprints took me to the caravan. I said this ain't no Grateful Dead show, cause if it is I blowing my ass out of this place. But the man was gentle. Like that Jesus character. He said: "Smoke your cigarette, I will make her aware of your presence." Oh how formal is he! What I thought and I know: the meds aren't quite right and my logic is jumping around like a faggoty unicorn, (laughter for a time. Hmm, cigarette). Can't waste no time laughin. These are the best I got. No sew-intravenal fiend can stampede me now. I don't want none of that. But, This is calumny. Meeting Sarah Thee Black. Thee Sarah the Black!!! Saint of the Roma gypsy tribe. Ehm. Gypsies have always facinated me, oh well. I suppose that is why the footprints tracked me all the way here. Some gypsy mischeif. Sneaky creatures they are, scally-waggers, I see, but damn I do admire their independence and unity. The perseverance and the severence from the country that pretends it is an empire and the man at arms is Luke fucking Skywalker- Arnold fucking schwarschwarztuneggger for California!!! Hell, I ain't never setting foot in that land. What a dolt!!!!Alright where is this dark, well, off-white man? Sara?
I Sara of Kali!!!! What magnificience!!! Like a novelty set of skin decorated in layers of fine fabrics of highly expenisve design or maybe even created by the gypsy's themselves. They are so damn creative. How I would wander among them and feel at home . That is why I had such an experience. The gypsy life fits the mold of my life. We are the same shapes and sizes and tricksters... Malarkey mischief I dang knew it~!!!!!! I was two years old when I first inquired bout the gypsies. Everyone says they are so damn backwards: I never saw the justification behind such a derogatory landslide as came out the mouths of gypsy haters. They hate them because they are smarter you see. They aren't going to give up their way for no lies. They are much sneakier and resourceful. They will always exist. Not like bronto the saurian . They were so stupid... them dinosaurs.... They ate up all their food and drank all the water and didn't save any for later so they died of undernourishment. 
Anyway I am waiting for the Black Lady Sarah. I am smoking. I was thinking of an axeman when all of the sudden I felt a presence. A strong feminine presence. There were colors, many colors, and soft breathing. I put out my cigarette which is out of character for me. What a day for characters! I never felt such feminine grace and purity. The Mennonites were far away from me at this point. Sarah, Saint Sarah of the Roma. She made me forget my bleak interconnections. There was only her. And me. And her. So her presence dug into me like the sweetest thorn. I looked into her eyes, they were black, tar-black and beautiful. Her eyes seemed to hold me into position because I,at this point, was too weak to hold myself up after such a journey. Her eyes had a whisper, not a voice, a whisper. So consoling. She knew I was afflicted yet did not know myself to be a victim. She said that I could stay so long as I take responsibility for my soul. She knew about the Master Frank and his horrid plague that ruthlessly injected itself into my tortured veins, time to time, sometimes years go by with no word from that horrid Master Frank. Do your best to keep Him at bay and you will once again find Henry. Henry is but a little boy underneath all those layers of age that have hardened and strangely shaped him into a statue of his nightmare self. That nightmare self can only erode the soft young skin of Henry if Henry does not do what it takes to stave away the shadow self. The world. You live a hard and confused life: A life of broken dreams due to a condition that is out of your hands but kept at bay only if you face your responsibilities. Sometimes it is best to remain when sojourn seems the likely answer. The comforting answer. You cannot run faster than your demons but you have the gift of out-witting them. Remember your brain, your devotion to literature and truth. Remember the gift of scholarship, that, although was lost in the fire of your illness, is still alive in spirit. You are still Henry the scholar. Your biggest gift is your honesty. Your honesty can be frightening, but it is pure. You are like the travelers. The ones that never sit still. You travel even when you are sitting still. You are outside the states and countries and montages of lands governed by terrible men. They fear this. You are not afraid anymore. They fear this. You are like us, yet you are not us. You have been brought to me so that I may remind your vagabond soul that it has worth and meaning on this earth even when your body betrays your thoughts and your actions become like enemies to a captured human being that cries harshly from within the cold cement of a haywire brain. Let me tell you Henry. You are blessed with an intense spirit that only few are courageous enough to indulge in. You know, very well, what you speak of and yet your words are mostly strangers not only to those that cannot put them together, but to you. Although you lose yourself, Henry, you never lose yourself. Your grip is steadfast and will never let go. You will never completely lose yourself. The Master hates you because he knows he will never have you forever. The only thing you have ever told Henry, is the truth, and so your life, fractured as it may be, is an honest life. This is your strongest attribute. You, Henry, are a sedentary traveler and have much in common with the Roma. You live on the periphery, but you know how to survive independent of the evil that comes with your illness: It will not kill you Henry, it will only deepen your awareness of all that infected surrounds you and lay upon you the gift of multiple perceptions. Do not take these perceptions as a fault or a brand of disease. These perceptions will live long after your death and be subject of many a scholarly discourse. Never futile. You travel. They travel. You are travelers that travel many separate and distinguished paths. You may not be Roma, but you are kin to us in spirit. there are so many ways to be outside when the inside looks so enticingly warm. Yet, you know you must endure the wind and the hail in order to fulfill your destiny. In order to be the mouth of mouths that cannot move, but are paralyzed with cruel muzzles; some too ill to speak; some too repressed to talk. You have a gift Henry. Many people are confused by your words. The words you speak are honest and brave, at times they seem anomaly when they are only lose associations that form deep connections as time moves and talk persists. Keep talking Henry. Keep traveling. Travel light though and keep the Master at bay. You were brought here, traveler among travelers, so that I may tell you that Master or Mennonite, there exists a Henry O'Malley. A brilliant and somewhat brightly colored spectacle sometimes tempered with gray patches, but such is life and to be human is to be human. Humans all have the gray time to time. Remember that you are human Henry. We live outside the comfort of the common, but such is our plight and gift and it is our responsibility to stay true to our mission. Farewell. I must be spectacle. The place where the land ends and the sea begins; they wait for me. Henry, my spirit embraces you. You carry many worlds on your shoulders.I cannot remember if she spoke directly to me or into me. This was not my only encounter with Kali Sara. The next thing I knew I was alone with salt water up to my ankles looking at a shore with no indentations. Not a footprint. I still had my cigarettes though. I lit one up and splashed absently to shore, cigarette in mouth. Where was I? Not Kansas for sure. The tin-man was stupid for wanting a heart. It is like asking for the plague. My thoughts turned from goddess to grasshoppers to scullions and stitches. I had stitches once above my right eyebrow. I took them out myself because I was anxious for the doctor to take them out. I had to do it to quiet my mind. No stitches, no fiasco in the right or left side of my brain. I carry many worlds on my shoulders, hey now, ain't that the truth. Thank you Sister Sarah, Sara Kali, Saint of the Roma.
-Henry
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