The Priest of Shorelines built a shrine to his Fanged Lord
in the museum's men's room. Nobody touched it, thinking it
was some kind of an art installment. Nobody complained, even
though it blocked entry to one of the stalls. He came twice
a week for a small service, during which he cut one perfect
tulip in two, and ate three raw eggs. He also sang, with a
voice like magma. I always go to the museum's men's room to
cry, because that's where I work, but I couldn't cry when he
was there. I just stared at this one-man cult, and he nodded
politely, and performed the rites.

He sang about how the whole world was a Snake, coiled around
the continents, hiding under the sand. It is only because It
pulls so tightly that our mountains do not crumble to sand
and dissolve in the oceans. Every living thing on land is
really half above ground, half under water. It made sense to
me, because that's how I feel when I cry.

So, I started eating raw eggs, ocassionally. Pull, Fanged
One, pull! Keep me from dissolving! Tighten your grip, and
keep me from breathing!