My Dear Parent,

The Glove Woman appears to have touched your mind. You may feel perfectly fine but others can see that you are becoming enmeshed in the Machine. Something may have already crept into your brain. You must know that the game is just the surface. Please leave this wretched tree before it’s too late.

(The other alternative is that you are entirely mad, in which case I do hope it isn’t genetic.)

Yours concernedly,

An Offshoot

The carbuncle withers inside the glove. Father wore it like a ring when he was alive.

It carved disasters on his hands. Made me notice the shape of his wrist. And count the fists to his retirement.

The red sore keeps crowning his toil.
The weather breaks on his bent limb.