Somewhere along the way I stopped wanting help. Help was another country, too humid in climate, too touchy-feely in culture. Help required too many visas and vaccines. To go would mean never to be safe.
I wanted a deus ex machina. Where was that god from the machine? It appeared all the time in ancient Greek tragedies. When the play wrote itself into an impossible corner, a crane would just drop from the ceiling: the intervention of a god. The actor would scramble on in and the crane would lift them up and out of harm’s way.
The fucking Greeks lived in ancient times. They didn’t even have phones. How, then, did they manage to create such a simple solution to life’s mess?
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