54:3 For strangers are risen up against me, and oppressors seek after my soul: they have not set God before them.

You give me riddle after riddle but I’m too tired to solve them all. Why is a raven like a writing desk? Because you said so and that must make it so. Why did the moon kill the sun? Who knows? Not I, not ever; you dangle the answer over my head but I think I know, deep down, that I’ll never learn the truth. Sometimes I want to curl up until I’m small and hidden, grow a shell around my softness to keep out the fragmented prophecies and incomprehensible clues. Do you think you could just tell me for once? Would it be so terrible to give me a gift that doesn’t require cunning to comprehend, something lacking hidden latches and spring-loaded blades? I know your gifts come with a price, and I have never balked at the payment, but I can only hunch over your newest puzzle for so long before my bleeding fingers are too numb to pick the knots.

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