The only things that will burn you will be the secret you keep at the corner of your lips.

You will find treasure in an old notebook. Smile and remember the creature you were several years ago.

Wait for your reward. A kiss comes in a cup of rich chocolate cake with true butter icing on top.

The cavernous grey halls of a long decommissioned power plant will echo with the cacophony of strange voices. "Work." "I love you." "I don't understand." A whole narrative in the plaintive wail of a child. A man whispering as if in confession. You will slide down the angled floor, dumbfounded, mesmerized.

You will search for her in empty shoeboxes, abandoned thrift shops pregnant with dead people's furniture, the trash of the rich. You will kick down locked doors with fury, shout out her name in old movie theatres converted into concert venues. You will never find her, even with the shoe she left behind.

You will watch with bated breath, as the wayward son and gentle Queen are caught in a conspiratorial embrace by the Cardinal and his King. Try not to weep for a martyr's dream and a hero's vision. Realize that in the end, the world has only room for pragmatists. Realize that justice is mere illusion peddled by the powerful.

"No touching, luv." She will hiss, as she taps your hand. You will be reaching for a bone china teacup on her velvet table. "The likes of you never buy a thing anyway." Walk away before the urge to throw the cup at her feet catches you.

No fortunes for two weeks. The English have no use for them.