Knuckle by knuckle her sceptred figure tightens to an arm rest which belongs to a wall beckoning to marble, it babbles: By no means Time is to be blamed for your faltering altitudes, instead experience can cost you a hand which, in turn, would mean the loss of half of your nail varnish.
The bull – a papal edict to demonstrate religious power of the church, not god – in her right…hovers slightly above her palm.
Someone mentioned once that “not even a penis could make you resign.”
Only the clouds chirping in a language unbeknown or, at last, a baby with Chinese British citizenship who will die in a South American civil war 73 years from now cries somewhere behind a maple tree.
There she sits, very still.