Late one night when we were on the street preaching about mind control, the good priest emerged from a dark alley. He was covered in blood. The bad priest was sitting by a fire in his study. He was drinking whiskey. We were confused, but God said to us, "Do not be confused. This is all part of my autobiography and I've come up with a brilliant ending that explains everything. It's a twist you'll never see coming."
   So I suppose we'll just have to wait until we get to the end of God's autobiography. Daphne was standing next to a lamp post on the corner of the street. She was waiting for a man called Justin. He was just a tiny dot on a page, and you wouldn't even notice the dot if it wasn't pointed out by an arrow that kept poking him in the back of the head. The ghost of Christmas past was on a bus full of people who didn't know where they were going, and neither did the driver. He'd been driving around the city for years, always on the lookout for something, but he didn't know what it was. The passengers were happy to wallow in the past with the ghost, and the rest, as they say, is part of God's autobiography.
   We were part of each other's diaries. According to mine, we were writing things into our diaries as we sat on a park bench beneath the yellow electric light and the white light of the moon. I've written the following lines into my diary for tomorrow:

   He's up in the air with his hair.
   I'm out of sheep.
   I dislike the jam in my pockets.
   He was joking about the speed of his coconut.
   She tried to tie the worms in knots but they just made her laugh.

   Now I just have to work these lines into tomorrow's plot.