“Long before there was spirit, or confession, or redemption, or the true quest — there were those hands. They were twisted and sinewy, and whenever I pictured them, decadently bejeweled. Even with a spindly, lipstick-stained cigarette held effortlessly between her fingers, they still somehow looked as though they should have been draped over a sceptre and an orb. In conversation, between long, glorious, menthol drags, her fingers seemed to pinch and poke at some smooth, velvety fabric that no one else could see. After just ten minutes spent in her presence, I longed to touch it also.
Perhaps encountering a true prophet in the ladies’ lingerie department at Sears is wholly unbelievable, but the chances of recognizing it as such are even more unlikely — particularly when you are as ardent and confused a non-believer as I was then. But witness her, I did — and the first thought that chiseled itself onto the inside of my forehead was, ‘Alea iacta est’:
‘The die has been cast.'”
— The Queen of Cups