Justice? Justice? Don’t give me that major arcana bullshit. I can almost hear you laughing through the card, see your smile spreading sly in the dancing candle shadows. Justice. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Justice for whom? Balance how? Where do I fall on the scales? I was always under the impression the scales were tipped and balanced by blood, by sacrifice, by the knife and gun. Are you saying I’m part of that measurement? Oh no. No no. That’s not how this works. I’m just the lowly scribe. I hurt with you, weep with you, mourn with you, but I’m still in the audience; I’m not part of the play. That night was just too many candles, too little water, a body pushed a little too close to exhaustion. Just a weird, weary mind. Not justice. Just.

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