Waste Not, Want Not

My skill has nothing to do with clairvoyance. I simply wherehouse the fragments of careless speech. Their corresponding pieces always reconcile themselves against the artifacts of my museum at key moments. Now the nature of that precision is beyond my intellectual bookkeeping. I am indebted to the magic of this lost and found.

Give me a wic from an abandoned candle, and I can show you a forest fire.

Show me a thong from just one sandal, and I can point out the poorest friar.

Ear plugs for those who can not handle the unforgiving notes of a moorish choire.

The soup is hot and frugally Campbel, either we are out of gazpacho, or I'm a borish liar.

Daydreamers leak badly. They do not understand the value they let spill all over the commons. Anyone smart enough to sanitize that incoherent sludge of intentions and schemes becomes the inheritor of secrets. Now they must pay me to dream. I reimburse them the wisdom of their hidden minds. I will mine their souls and sift for power. Off-handed comment, slips of the tongue, and mineral rich jesting all end up in my accounts receivable. I have become your friend through theft. I have betrothed you to me with a plot that has come out of a dust bin. Reconfiguration does not start with a hip bone. It starts with a fingernail. How could you resist my covert charm when it is just me selling you back to yourself?