I feel it there at the outer edge of 
	the city of heaven, tracing its paths
	against the indelible sky. I know when 
	it passes over head and I know that were 
	I to travel with it I would be no burden, 
	for my body is without organs. Let me go. 
	Let me travel with you and as Peter sleeps 
	we shall slip through the gates. I will 
	carry the sample case. I will learn every 
	line of the sales pitch. Together we shall 
	go door to door among the blue towers and 
	the doorbells will play the forgotten 
	threnodies of Orpheus for Eurydice. The 
	empty suburbs of heaven will echo with
	sound of the ringing bells. The saints will 
	come sleepy-eyed to their doors in their 
	bathrobes and slippers.

	Together we shall sell them the complete 
	set. We will spare them nothing. We will 
	charge them full retail price. We will 
	calculate the sales tax. And, of course, 
	the substantial shipping fee. The prices 
	we exact will be exorbitant, the
	commission on each sale will furnish palaces. 
	But the saints shall have the wisdom of our
	infernal books, their eyes will be open and 
	they shall know their bodies.