The locusts are coming. It’s not a warning, it’s a promise. We know you are not a farmer. We know you don’t give a s****, but the locusts do. It’s a mutation within your DNA. Those locusts are just going to love you to bits. We suggest you don’t leave your apartment, and tape the windows and the doors shut.


There are letters on your doorstep. They are all the love letters that were lost, or never sent in the first place. There are simple napkins, post-its, envelopes, and torn notebook pages. Some are wet, some perfumed and some are pink. If you’re lucky, you live on ground floor, and you are able to leave through a window. If not… We will come to that next week.


Sorry, dear Gemini, it’s the chickenpox. Try to sleep it off. The itch will be bad enough. Eat lots of ice cream, watch tv, play dominoes, dissect that creature you had in your trunk. Hey, at least it’s not the liver fluke. That’s scheduled for next month. Be a good Gemini and stay in bed.


There is the small strongbox under your bed. Yes, it appeared last night with a hollow metallic thud. Funny, it didn’t wake you. It was loud enough to wake us up. There is no key, we checked. We asked the spiders to look out for any stray keys. Yes, we HAD to ask them. Yes, we know you have Arachnophobia. Yet, they will not climb unto your bed.


Cover all your windows, kill the lights. Keep yourself in the dark, literally and physically. This is just a phase. When your teeth will grow out and your eyes will glow, it will pass. Your diet should contain way more iron. You know what that means.


The weight you carry on your shoulders? You should put it down and examine it. Those boulders aren’t just useless rocks. Some of them are labeled “duty,” some of them “your best,” some “fear,” some “disgust.”  In the end, all of them are bones – petrified bones of the monster that now occupies your doorway.


The kitchen is the heart of your house. It’s the pulsing, hot mess keeping you warm, fed and well. It’s the sacred fire of your stove, the home of the Goddess, who protects you. She is on holiday this week. Her fill-in is a scatterbrain, she might set your kitchen on fire. Keep an extinguisher at hand.


DON’T PANIC! Yes, the door is bricked up. Yes, the monks brick up the windows too. Still, your powers will keep you alive, no matter how long you will be kept here. All the kicking and screaming won’t help, and the chanting won’t stop for a foreseeable time. We suggest you calm down and come up with a good escape plan.


The house is an illusion. From the outside, it looks alright, but from above, its a ruin of disintegrated walls, rubble, and dirt. The windows let in the daylight and the night. The roof already gave up. The stairs keep on keeping on. They are sturdy and more stubborn than the geometry of reality. From the inside, it’s a tomb.


You’re alive. Don’t tug too much, or the cable binders will dig deeper into your wrists. The raven-eyed woman needs some answers. Be honest. Don’t fear her, she is the nice one, despite her beak clicking. The grey-haired yellow-eyed woman is the one who beat you up and tied you to your kitchen chair.


The cat from the tv adds jumps into your lap. The purring is a good sign. Nevertheless, the feline hologram can barely be petted. You do it anyway. Your hand goes right through its body. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t want to be loved. Love it, with all your hologram heart and mind. Love that rude human meatbag too.


Bonus week! Just kidding! You get the same as everybody else: Seven days with twenty-four hours, in your room, with yourself. Now, now. This is not a punishment, it is quality you-time. The quality is entirely up to you.

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