Jehovah Wants

Wants red velvet and a middle, one plate split into two with twin forks and tuxedo cat to curl asleep into the armpit of the world then wake and stretch in the window. Wants children but children are allergic so lets the cat out. And silence. Jehovah dreams during naps of nothing except the idea of nothing, no, the idea of exploring nothing atop eight-hundred count sheets, or a cloud, whichever comes into existence. 

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