Mother Teresa was made a Saint today.
Now I believe anything is possible under the Sun. Not that I care much, other than that which people believe without question, then put it upon me to concur.
Which brings me to my muses.
They are not beauties to behold. They sing to me in my darkest hours and irritate me as a beard rash does a woman's thigh.
The conversation is with me. There are few left who can tolerate the argument or understand the outcome.
So I find myself playing with the messages.
This is today.
Tomorrow will be better. Or not.