Foresee it all. Read into the cards of the future. Become what fate may have. There’s no rhyme or season to ingest just a bit of psyche. Bending sound around the corner like a Littlehawk that harkening a caw just shrill enough that an image of self emerges in one’s mind’s eye. This self is 40 years from now and this mirage (of sorts) is gambling commuters’ fates with Tarot cards while they walk past, flicking cards at their feet, cursing them, providing luck, mingling white and black magic in an array of hopelessness. Then the cure comes gusting in like another Littlehawk — only it’s from the present (to your future-self: the past) — around the corner like a healing vibration resonating a light so powerful it wraps around ears like a cocoon.