Piers Plowman texts me these alliterative poems while I'm sleeping and my sister says I'm sainted. She locks me in the attic and only lets me out to perform miracles. My first miracle is a casino home for the elderly and then I turn silicone breasts to gold. When I am miracled out I vid chat with Piers and look only at my own face on the screen. I have a halo now and smell of potpourri. Piers says he's tired of plowing. When the vision is over, my phone is dead and the attic is littered with my relics.