And she did not stumble. She did not reach out. She knew where he was just as she knew where she was. Her face her eyes behind what seemed volcanic glass almost asking him, “Who is blind?” Without the words. Almost as if she did not answer to his description. That lack of vanity. A way of being so that you do not say, “This is me…” but “That is you in describing me.” And she did not have to answer. Not to the question he asked, but also to the question he did not ask. The: where is God? I am not good because He did not create me only to be good. It is my intrinsic freedom to say, “This is good but I will not do it and so what I do must be bad this must be my inherent evil and all that I suffer comes from my freedom and what God cannot be…” The allowance of an old account. The answer to the question he did ask: is it settled? And that’s when he saw it. He saw the silver necklace she wore among the bones and teeth. He saw the Cross and her answer: what is forsaken? You or your loneliness? You wear it like a thorny crown–the spiritual concept of what you look like to your fellow man. For what is as real as the age of the earth? Man’s delineated history? No. You say: this exists. And it exists. Just as what you don’t know exists has and always will be with no past until you say that it is. Then does it have a past in order for you to see it now for you to say: It was and now it is. You make the incorruptible corrupt. By your body that now exists you speak forth the past and this to you is where God is located the blame for all your evil. Oh man! What grows in your seedless vanity? Behind all your words stands the devil to foretell. The playgrounds to your pause. And any hesitations to your fantasies are what God is and only can be… This is what Benjy met as he stood at her door. And Marie Toussaint didn’t make it any easier on him. She couldn’t. Not because she was blind, but because he could see…

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