The right hand that sometimes does not know what the left hand is doing benefits from its ignorance. Gone is the knowledge of how many bullets are in the gun or how many spent—how many holes waffle the carcasses of its targets. It sleeps better at night than the left hand. Without nightmares and deaf to the screams that its mind makes, not able to connect one stimulus to the other, blind to the blood its body's eyes see spraying from its writhing victims, some of them children, some of them women on the way to markets. Women have to go to markets. It's in their genes to shop. Even during riots and bombings, they must shop. Without shopping, they wither in the shadows of a patriarchal society that emphasizes beauty. Of course, American women are the apotheosis. We make shopping an art, the exactitude of evaluating woofs and warps, gems and metals within a matrix of international fashion psychology. We shop as if life depends on it. Our Father, lead me to the holy of holiest grails, designer threads wholesale. I would kill for these prices. Honey, you don't have to tell me how much it cost but please remember to hide the credit card statement. My heart cannot take the shock.