I do not want a house. OMFG. Never, ever. What would I do with a house.

I live on the road. The bag is packed at all times. The house I live in does not belong to me. My vehicles are stolen. What stolen. Stolen stolen. I am still teaching Andrew how to supercharge software that moves certain numbers around on the Internet.

It’s the prison of the numbers game.

Agnes is my mentor. Agnes has at least 14 pseudonyms. I never know which one on certain dates I could call Vivian Keysle Brown, Carmella Bondette, Barbarella Cheese. But on Sudays at 6pm sharp, Eastern Standard time. You get one minute on a burner.

She’s Sherlock Hoimes, she’s Ana Gardner. She’s a poet. She’s a thief. She’s ephemeral. She’s missing. She speaks five languages, and takes cover in whorehouses everywhere. She’s so far down the Internet’s frost-far voices, all light has disappeared. And the eastern hills set against a grateful sky with far bright stars were scintillant and hard as if carved by an undertaker. She is deepwomb broods gently on the secrets and the darkness. Hamburger steak. I do not want a house.

Agnes is trouble. If it’s Agnes at the door, run.