It’s not easy being a Sultan. I have more wives than I know what to do with, and still my outfits clash.
Don’t tell me. I have mirrors. I can see. And what I can see, is good.
I see I still have all my limbs. How many? It doesn’t matter. I’m tired of looking at them. Someone bring me some wives to drape over my various appendages.
Put her over there. And let her bisect the triangle described by the other two. Or maybe not. Bring me one who is more limber. No, I do not need to move. Yes, it is a double standard because I get to have double the fun!
And now, finally, my movement is limited by all this beauty. And only at this time can my brain start working. Because my brain is in limbo since it is always trying to escape from my body. Yes, it thinks it can except when it knows it can’t.
I love being buried under so many arcs and curves and chords. I also trust this setup more than my bodyguards because it is always moving and squirming, and the wives are always bisecting each other. When I am like this, my fear of death disappears.
When I am at the bottom of the heap, I can start thinking of the immortality of the soul. I am too scared, otherwise. Immortal is such a long time. But not long enough, am I right?
It is a liminal space, where the element of fire predominates. With hints of earth, since I am being pressed into the ground. That makes me a flower, by extension, and because I said so.
I would trust more of my enemies, if they, too, were held down by at least six wives. We should make the world a safer place.
And all our flowers would finally open.