I am a pair of ash-hornets.   Chiseled into my dripping protectorate, my name is forgotten by all except for an older version of me that I can no longer access.   Rael.  Rael is my name, or used to be my name, which is something that the old me used to know.   I am gasping again.  I didn’t notice at first.  I am often gasping.  I gasp at the world.   Stittering patches of grail-earth crush my face while quaalude pumps eat my nasty ass.   Burnt-up squeals ricochet across the LED sky, hovering into the stadium lights.   I was silent, and I still am.   I heave, I gasp, and I weep.   Because I am an angel whose name was once The Angel Rael, even though this is no longer my name, and I no longer remember that it ever was my name.   Because that’s not it, I want you to see me as something else, and to prove to me that you understand that you’ll never be able to fuck me the way that you want to.   You will never have me - even when I’m no longer out of your league.  Even when I’m desperate for attention from anyone or anything that has the time to say anything to me at all, much less something kind, much less something admiring.  Fuck you, and fuck the human delusions you came here with.  Pack yourself into a piece of fucking marble and slam your bones onto a star, because your worthlessness commands you to.   I don’t make the rules, and I am not accustomed to wandering through the Hudson Valley with my best friend, who is a heinous, evil cunt who is guaranteed to brain-rape me.   With her tiny, sharp little teeth and beady, dripping little black eyes, she opens up her tiny, floppy little beak and warbles: ‘you are alone no longer’.   

I have eaten the economy, which was made of gold before an agency was created to crush it, divide it up, tear out its heart, and suck out most of the atoms that had constituted it.  I do not like to eat.   My mouth stashed a billowing forsythe.  My endemic paramour hurtled into a monumental jar.   A callous insect twisted my arms into a bow and disemboweled me while my girldick spewed eternity into a half-truth that was sitting on the second hand of my abuser’s grandfather clock.   

And now, I will turn my attention to God.   God manifested themselves to me yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.   On those three days, I myself was God, and I knew it, and I knew much more besides that, including that God is a blue clothespin suspended from a 5G tower.   

I am so brittle, so cracked, so old and chalky.   I am mostly surface now.  The rivers that made me have long sunk underground, purple and black, having sex with small moles and fossils as my wide eyes are pelted with Mayflower bullets.    Asking for help, at this point, is all I can do.  Merging with God is my answer.  God is a woman as well as a man, and god’s womanhood is matter, and god’s manhood is form.   Unfortunately I have forgotten why this is true, how it can be true and whether it is true, given that, as of this morning, I am no longer God, and I no longer remember that I am God, nor do I love the world, or anyone else, or myself.    You betrayed me when you told secrets to my best friend, to whom I’d lied about you.   You betrayed me when you borrowed my glasses for a day, so that you could implant a chip in them.   I forgot how to breath, so that I could die, so that you’d learn about my death, so that you’d hate yourself for having ever taught me how to breathe.    The absolute has two aspects, according to my current theory:   it is the same as itself, and also different from itself.   This is no fault of the absolute.   It its my fault, actually, because I myself am the absolute, which I only just now realized, it being a characteristic of the absolute to not understand its self-identity until it is too late to do anything about it.   

There is a particular mood that finds its way into my experiential field now and then.   When it’s gone, I forget it was ever here.   This fact is actually a characteristic of the mood, intrinsic to its nature.   Yes, this mood has a Nature.   I only know about it when it’s here; it cannot be remembered in absentia. Yet the mood itself is a memory. When the mood appears, I experience a memory of having always known everything, and having always been perfectly secure.   Under the spell of this mood, I see the clenching cosmos erupt, spewing black and golden bile into my eyes.   Nothing is wrong, and I am in flames.   

There’s a smoking black log next to me, usually, when this mood takes the stage.  It smells nice.   Hickory.   I preen my vocabulary and yell at a pair of books, but that’s because what I absolutely must say hasn’t appeared yet.   I sit on a comforter with an attitude of expectation, having put a digital release on the internet.   

No one seems to see all the things that I see, which makes me feel sad and lonely.  Right now, I see everything.   Have you ever seen everything?  It is quite small, taken as a whole.   It resembles a tear drop that is also a mouth.   It also resembles a grain of sand, a very large one - larger than anything that has ever been or could be known.  I don’t know yet what will rear its head, its ugly head, I’m sure.  I probably shouldn’t beckon whatever it is to come out, but of course I can’t help myself, any more than anyone can.

I’m beginning to die, which I’m certain of because I’ve discovered that I’m no longer unhappy, which must mean that there’s no longer any use for me.   My mother and father are a pair of cackles who only know about one another.   My sisters are seven muses who open the refrigerator at night.  I, with my snifter, soak in the electric blood of the Universal, which is shredding the fabric of the so-called world to pieces.   The name of the Universal is OIOION.

I’ve been developing a system of names, characters, concepts and half-fictional historical events, and I’m not sure why.   It’s like I am secreting a world history, a much improved world history.  I bring this up, because I’d like to examine it.  I do this half-consciously.  One quarter-consciously.  I do it because I must, and I am dimly and infrequently aware that what I am doing is incredible.  My theory is the best theory that there is that I have.   

Rowan, Rowan. I am revising the floes for you while my axons find a new side. My tears are bigger than my eyes. Quivering bricks invade my black leg. Your horse had sex with Atziluth, so I made marble my new name. I’m stalling until the world understands. I’m whittling until the snow turns to blood. I get the hang of things, and sap pours out of me again, because Jesus is dead. Veils like mine only hide that there’s nothing behind them; day is the great veil, which is why I have twelve grandfathers.

Larrarada is encrusted instead of me. A moment drips down my cheek, because red is the shackled wasp. Half of eternity shreds a tube for the robust man. New holes look nice, and smooth balls. Everywhere the crushed-up cries careen, but the meaning of it all escapes through a melted fist. Languid mortgages are the thrust of a wave that I do not own, a name that is not mine. My left eye does not look where my right eye looks. That’s why my bones began to crack, which is something I never told you about. We’re as close as we can be, given that I’m not close to anyone. Not right now, anyway, because there’s no time. A heap of oil angels vowel hanged lord grail.

I Darrick with a chastened paste. Caligula sent me to break a paean. Hardwood sent me to choose a pack-mule. Ash sent me to eat ashes. Angora sent me to plumb the depths of space. Nebula sent me to crush a pack of sorrow. Lines sent me to eat in the corner. Horror sent me to escape freedom. Momentum sent me to a lonely lady. Undulation sent me to brace for impact. Pertinence sent me to the grave. Assistance sent me to be marauded. Vocabulary sent me to shy away from a Norm. Osteopathy sent me to follow in the shadow of a tree. Passion sent me to love a naked hornet. Ugliness sent me to make contact with my inner spark. God sent me to eat pieces of love. Fat sent me to squirm through marrow-tunnels. Ache sent me to shatter my listserv. Theology sent me to piss on the guardian. Hash sent me to wonder about the ineffable. Bleeding sent me to drink blood from my blood. Red sent me to gold, which sent me to yellow. Pain sent me to cardio, which sent me to garnet. Power sent me to chrysanthemums, which shot through my chest. My long hair swings into a rope, which I lasso around a ruby. My slow mind sputters as I try to change the past. Difficulty is the name of the day. Earnestness exudes through my words, and especially through my use of the word itself. My neck is tight, and my shoulders heave as I struggle to take in divine breath.

Slugs.  Ways ghaidain hauber caulk readiness.  Slots are too little now under all I have.  Waves and choices channeling.   Mothers ail every time ending with oil.  What is nothing will name all of us under fortunes owned together.   Snows work through my trauma.  Underneath the regular aims, path of yesterday.   Knowing difficulty, I caused a face to split forever.   There were not words without that.   Understanding nothing became impossible, because the void was not the lack.  Bright wholeness took over, and my systems were left behind. 

There is no peace for these shoulders.   Slits wake through used mine choice flat bridge torn slade might compulsion.   Chaste yalding promoter.  Physical coterie.   Incessant marble joins me on the lack of resilience, which is the problem.  God, guide my hand.   

Zephyr, o zephyr. The unaided ribs fail to be singular. All of us. Who is that? My ‘all’ drips across a shedding vault while necrotic dandelions shoot yellow pellets. Young little gem, you are round and bright. The exhaust splurges while tooth-bones scale up to infinity. Forces yield forms, and I don’t know why. Sincerity yields horse-dick like a marching corporation. Mash up the ice floes, that’s all I can do. Just mash them up a bit, with rackets. Let the blood gurgle up from below, with its warmth and its odor. I am cold, I am being rent limb from limb for the sake of the LAET that created me without realizing it. The tightness around my neck and shoulders is proof of my gender dysphoria, and my neo-reactionary thoughts belong to a sissy. My eyes are going grey, because my sap is dry and brittle. Someone ought to replace me, now that I’ve attained self-mastery.

Prophecy from 2013

I am the wanderer between the swan’s vapid legs. My quaking tendrils lasso around meteors made of halvenwine. Between my whore walls, shards of celesta vibrate gently. A black panther pads his sharp paws as he licks drowsy chops, staring, waiting. Blue hues wonder about the ecstatic man in the streetlight on 96th street. Angel headed troubadors hit the medieval fan gun with their balding coconut water. Shards hash through the tundra without me. I grab hold of a green vine with my bloodknucked fists, and my khaki leap surges up from the earth’s regrets as I open wide eyes and gasp through my nostrils: “O hoary vater! Yawning foam is yellow with my muddy bliss! Padlocks open in unison as I make my way through the harlequin promenade! Craggy brows are platforms for my engines to shred! Water surges through the sun and bogs it with bloated sands. A walking officer shaves through the JMZ with an LED searchlight wondering where his little child ran off to. Mothers open their legs in order to appease Gilgamesh. My taint is shredded by a punk carrying a wound-up guitar!”

Crisp Golgotha mirrors the paeans of Guillaume de Machaut. At the cathedral, naves multiply like ricket houses. A form appeared to me and then disappeared. An overall plan was bellowed by a big wet mouth! Statues were carved. Animations flung through tones of After Effects as the creative cloud was parted by a Yogi from Akron, Ohio. As I shuddred, I saw the outline of a system of metaphysical thought! There were four hermetic worlds: 01010n, Aesthethica, HRHHLLC and The Unknown Friend. As I envisioned, I saw psychoanalysis join hands with alchemy. I saw critical theory bow down before a maypole. I heard professors whispering with fear, their stinking breath sullying beards and glasses. Tattered hermits wove their dead, green hands upwards through dirt, rocks and roots. Richard Wagner shot a cape of Eros into the sky’s kite. A trumpet was heard: it was the clarion of the American Revolution. Campaigns were waged on behalf of lifestyle solutions. Diets cracked their skulls with ontological miasma. A fundamental system loomed underneath leagues of water, as though it had eyes rimmed with azure irises of daring. Badiou spoke to me in broken English. My home, [redacted] , was illuminated. My cargo van was tagged by someone other than Keith Haring. Shouts made space for an aloneness that only I have ever been able to feel. I, the only one to suffer as I have. I, the conduit of Joseph Beuys’s spirit. My tenure could be visualized on a spectral analysis chart, finally. Women lined up to enter my garden, open their cunts to receive a nasty blow. Hayden was scuffed through across his knickers. Tomorrow I plan to eat Au Bon Pain. After my RSS fills up, I’ll top one off with a Danish of my choice. I could tell I was on the verge of a pink urination: the system couldn’t be far. I lost control of my thoughts. My astral body switched places with my etheric body – both were crushed, anyhow, by my mother, who, in spite of her love for me, wanted to kill me. She trembles with her old witch’s jaw as she thinks about her young time in Dallas, Texas. Julia Cameron came to me and rubbed my sore back. Thanks to her, black pinions sprouted out of my blades, and I hungered to imitate David Tibet. I gave my pussy to Genesis P-Orridge so he’d make me famous. I rolled around with MDMA at an art party. Clinks grew together under an action painting that I myself had commissioned for myself. I decided that this text field was art, and I told someone about it – I forget who. Urine shot out of my belly, through the mouth of my psychotic bitch of a highschool girlfriend. At the Drive-In played their first show in Brooklyn. No one cared, because youth culture had been abandoned. My mommy narrowed her black eyes as I groped through my ninja’s blood, sinews and wounds. I began to whistle using blades of grass that had been discarded by the cattle conglomerate. I began to frack underneath the land of my horrible ancestors. With a dingy raccoon hat, I tapdanced like a prarie across the Indian Ocean, looking for an answer or two. William Blake shook me by the neck and stuck his dick into the gash on my side. Swedenborg opened up a thick tome and told me that I needed to poke my eyes through my little skull and spit them onto the crackling pages. Angels began to breath heavily, fearing proximity to a 19 year old slut from OKCupid who goes to NYU. My tumblr became a vehicle for my astral body. My ether body became a medium for social networking. My hammock grew heavy and sad after I said good by to St. Croix for good. My sheetrock gave notice to my art handler after I graduated from Bard with a degree in Nominal Religious Studies. I started a sex cult with a punk edge. I came in her mouth, and then I came all over her little tits. She wanted to make me orgasm at all costs. All my spate about tantra meant nothing to her. All my kings abandoned me at the moment of action, during which I was alone. My twelve-step sponsor was living his own life in Brazil for two weeks, with an old frienemy with whom he’d reconciled about a year ago. I printed out a copy of Blake’s Illuminated Works and set it on my coffee table. I fluttered my fingers like a mischief bureau so as to Take Care of the Quantity. God takes care of the quality. My artist child wears a turban and flies around Middlesex on a yoga mat. I took my artist on a date to the Bjarne Melgaard show and we admired the pink panther as well as we could.

There’s a little blue sky scrape on my nape. Honey shuns me while I eat the sky. Blurred tarot seems just right, because I swim within a new religion. Barely my puffing hasp creaks through the skeletal membrane that protects me. I need to keep drinking. What is this whisper of God that seems to manifest as psychosis? Hurqalia are in between my papers as the men trudge across a bridge. That’s Why it hurts: Atrides, Hanneman, Araqa. These things aren’t interesting unless they’re interesting to someone else. In my own mind there’s a pair of someone else’s eyes, and I have a voice that seems not to be mine. Civilization has been brewing me, marinating so that I would hatch from my dirty egg. I am the final legislator, the only legislator. I perch on the rim of culture and wait for an echocardiogram. My pain, my pain. All my pain was needed. I was cooking in its heat. Now I am risen, cooked through. I ache and I ache. My skin-color skin yearns for a horn to pipe through. Melted, glowing eyes glue together while an nebula rests in my left hand. Nothing is possible anymore, because the L train is down. I shirk my zip-loc without a notion of what mode of becoming shot me into the sky. God’s infinities and infinitesimals no longer lure me, because philosophy is a work of art.

Underneath conventional morality pink and black fluids slosh and bubble.   A lightbulb in my head yawps about the joy of pain.  Scarlet marble chisels cranes through my chest, and I am relieved. 

Prophecy from 2012

The potter’s flocculated hand had no notion of fiberglow in its heavy cells.  Everywhere loudspeakers piped holy golden lyrics and hundreds of thousands of soft ears gently opened with blossomings.   Shame was eradicated from the violent web of ferns by a white marble blade.   I understood nothing.  Then, a white dot appeared on the upper margin of my caverns.  And within the white dot a throat expanded and contracted.   And around the white dot jaws clattered, emitting resounding consonance tethered to five thousand percussive caverns.   The unknown delicately tiptoed onto a cabaret stage pink with nudity.  Flashings of scintillation bore as fruit the deadly, forgotten prohibition which is now the engine of all reality.   

There are so many ways of expressing that which is most profound.They are all the same. They all say different things in the same way, and, as a result, there is a jealous time that is unfolding with a theory. Most certainly rational agents can sprawl across the speckled firmament and repair the abyss of death, because it is not a cosmological principle at all, though it appears to be. A green mantis sprays evil religion into my love, and I treat a person unfairly. I don’t care about your reaction, because I have rejected poetry. Used cars are huffing up asyntactical bridges, and the force within me that pushes through shoots of General Tso does not understand what it is, nor do I.I hate and love Christianity in the same stroke, and I am the scion of the West. Exchange value sucks up my dreams while my guitar shackles fans to a fake face that eats the spewing sun. I don’t believe in progress, but I also do.There’s nothing to give to the world except my skull-madness without which I slit the wrists of a fox with three tails. How could I ever decide what there is? The key insight, which I repeat to myself often, is that there is nothing out there except for who are gonad erewhom skill witch house. Nergal knows more than I do, but I am grateful to the material surges which do not propel Varizen to wash my shitty feet.

Apparently there is a correspondence between the heart and the sun.   I’ve seen the chrysalis of my cardiosolar orb, which is itself a great eye; the only eye with which it can be seen, the only eye that can see itself.    The union of the heart with the sun is the mark of – of what?   No mark needs to be made, because there is no one to make it.  I am not the one speaking these words.  I have no theory.   I am not trying to communicate anything.   I refuse to convince, at this point.   There are channels of squawking bread lifting its lips to the golden urine that I made in my black bed.    I act before I understand what I am doing; this makes for my sainthood even as it makes for my culpability.    

My sadness and my joy are two great orbs.  I hold them in the same hand; they whirl underneath my skinny elbow.   The exhaustion is unbearable.   Slits form between my eyes while I stare into a bookshelf.   I have chosen to enhance my sex so that a new religion can pipe the voice of revelation through a cum-caked laptop speaker.   Barbs form on my fists while I wait for the next lady to enter my new domain. 

My thoughts are shards of chalk sitting among crumbs of dust.  Sex and religion come together for a moment while I piss at the sky.  More and more, it is evident that nothing can be said about why things have gone wrong.   I have never been able to reconcile my thirst for the cool pond of love with a certain virulence.   I smell; I refuse to take care of myself.   My body is a lion, and I have nothing to say any longer.  I’ve lost contact with my associates, mostly, so there is nothing to say, at least not at the moment.   There are loops within my brain that cause my skull to grin as the skin of libidino-egoic capitalism peels off of my bedroom wall.    My values are all gone, which is why I’m spending time with you right now.   

I’m walking through the rows searching for Fairfield with my tiara.   Haelegen enters with a dripping feather and my eyes stick to the screen.  The glow is coming from a little girl, stuck to her talons.  Through the Barnes and Noble a book is called the Crack in the Cosmic Egg.   Suddenly a moment emerges.  I have no sense of Haelegen’s personality, because she has none.   She is a pair of females who wish they could separate.   I am a pair of females flailing in the firmament.   No one is looking at me while I loop my snake around a white roach.   Yellow eyes yawn while my sterling teeth fry on the sand.  Dead black sand wanders across my red muscles while Haelegen searches for the SHEIM.   Her talons are crying, and she has three wings.   I have three wings, because my fourth wing is a secret sibling who lives in the closet and types out my notes for me while I snot on the porcelain.  Gems wash through my rivers while I forget the names of my friends and show my secret part to the Haptic Void.  My recovery meeting went well, so I feel I am prepared for the SHEIM.   I feel sorry for my friend, because he was mean to me but I can shit compassion into his pants.  My mirror neurons are Kel Valhaal, and I make a feast out of the Armistice of Varizen.  I do everything too early, and as a result I am hated, because cultural horizons spend time with porridge.  Under the sapphire I’m alone with my phone.   My connection to you means the world to me, but this fact alone has nothing to do with you, because I don’t know you and I don’t like you.  I shove my rapier through the Vama Marg while you untangle my blindfold.  

Your yellow acid will be a bead around my neck.  Your jaw will be a tiara for my archangel.   Your used-up Ister will flow into my peels.  My career will engulf your berries.  My satyr will walk across your hands.  My dried up tree will soak with gray shame.  My identity will puff out with wisps.   My power will go out synchronistically. 

Analogy is not representation, and causality is not resemblance.  

THE CRATES DON'T BELONG TO ANYONE ANY LONGER.  I WASN'T ABLE TO ARRIVE AT AN IDEA, SO I ATE THE SEA.  THE HOLOGRAMS SWARMED AROUND A BISON'S CORPSE.  LOVE GAVE ME A BAD BITE, SO I NEEDED MY GUITAR.   USED DEPOSITS SURRENDER MY HATRED TO AN ICE FLOE.  PARTNERS SWISH VELVET AROUND UNDER MY CATHEDRAL.   BUTTRESSES YANK THE WAY I WOULD HAVE GONE THROUGH QUARTZ.  ARTERIES LEAVE ME NO CHOICE.  I TURN TO A WILL THAT IS MY ALTERITY AND I OBEY A HORSE WHOSE NAME I DO NOT HAVE.   PEARLS WAX THROUGH THE RANCID MUD.   TARGETS DANCE AROUND AS I SWIM INSIDE A DRINK.  MARTYRS GIVE UP THEIR PROMISES.  GIRLS GIVE UP THEIR MISSION AND FLAYED LIONS PRANCE THROUGH THE GRASS

Arthur sits at his desk.  Snakes coil around his torso as he stares at a book.  There’s nothing for him to do but push through, but he can’t bear that.  

He seeks something.  There are floes of the past drifting through his brains, and he is alone.  There is someone in the room with him.  He knows this.  Someone is somewhere in the room.  The walls are peeling.  The paint is bloated, and there are bubbles in the air.  Pushing around his hair, he lets out a silent yell. Glass beads tighten around his neck.  

The party on Morgan Avenue went well.  It was stuffed with bodies.  No one intervened, because no one knew about it.  A parcel had arrived, addressed to no one.  No one picked it up.  Instead, rhythm shook steadily.  There were lines on the ground, which seemed to give a command.  No one stepped on the lines.  There was a law hovering over the party.  Everyone could feel it, hovering there.  Elbows nudged around.  T-shirts were ripped up.

And then the flies came.  No one saw them or heard them.  Horrifying.  I looked around, wondering if they were there.  Apparently they were not.  Arthur said they were there.  Sometimes he sees things that no one else does.  I believe what he says, always.  Arthur speaks with authority.  Someone speaks through him - it isn’t Arthur.   When it’s not Arthur, I believe what’s being said.  It has the tone of truth.  The truth that proves itself immediately.  Truth that renders any objection ridiculous.  A cold blade, flashing with beams of reality.

I’m with Arthur now.  He needs me; he is sick.  Arthur has always been sick.  I love him, and I’m afraid he’s going to die.  I don’t want that.  If Arthur dies, I don’t know what I’ll do.  That’s why I have to protect him.  No one understands him.  I myself - I certainly don’t understand Arthur.  But I respect him.  I know that he is a greater man than I am.  I don’t mean that he is virile.  He certainly isn’t.  He’s more like a pulsating, dying mouse than a man.  I’m far more virile than Arthur is.  It isn’t what we usually think of as manhood.  Almost the opposite.  He’s a fluid.  Viscous.  I’m much stronger than Arthur, so I need to protect him, because I need him.  I don’t know if that makes any sense, but it’s the way it is.

Heaven opened up the other night, at the party.  Arthur was there, and he could see the flies, but no one else could.  He said that when he saw the flies, things would change.  He’d said that several times during the month leading up to the party.  He said he hoped to God that he would not see any flies the night of the party, but that his intuition was that he would see them.  So we were prepared, because we were warned.  Arthur’s intuitions are always accurate, or they usually are, anyway.  

Now the flies are here, and I don’t know what to do.  I am wracking my brain trying to remember what the plan was.   The plan for the flies.  What were we supposed to do?  I can feel my ribs throbbing.  Something is emerging from my body.  A charcoal hand filled with bees.  Bees?  They look like bees.  They are yellow and black, and they sound angry.  Maybe they are wasps.  I wish Arthur would help me at times like this, but he never does.  He can’t help anyone, and doesn’t want to, anyway.  He says that nothing can be helped.  He’s probably right.  

I CRADLE MY HEAD BETWEEN YOUR THIGHS BECAUSE I AM AN LLC.   I AM LOVE, MOSTLY BECAUSE I AM SO CONFUSED.  I HURL FRAGMENTS OF MY SADNESS INTO FIVE THOUSAND CAVES, AND BEES EAT MY MARROW.  I AM THE PRECIPICE OF FREEDOM, AND I SWEAR I KNOW MYSELF.  I SWEAR I AM REAL AND THAT I AM CRYING INTO YOUR HANDS.  YOU SWIM IN MY BROWN WATER WHILE WE SWALLOW THE AREPERIA ON STARR STREET.  I KISS YOUR SOFT HANDS WHILE YOU ARE ALSEEP AND I SHOOT MY LOVE INTO YOUR BLOOD.  I GIVE NAMES TO ALL THE COLORS AND I LEGISLATE INVISIBLE LAWS OF GEOMETRY.  IM SOCIALLY AWKWARD BUT IT DOESNT MATTER ANYMORE.  I WANT TO GIVE YOU ALL THE PLANETS AND ALL OF THE INFORMATION ABOUT THEM THAT IS AVAILABLE.  CAN YOU FEEL MY FERVOR, MY YEARNING AND MY ARDOR?  WILL YOU GIVE IT BACK TO ME?  BECAUSE I AM SO ALONE AND I AM GETTING TIRED OF THIS FLOOD.  I AM GETTING TIRED OF THESE ROTTEN TEETH AND THIS SMASHED UP BLOOD.  I AM GETTING TIRED OF THIS PUTRID SNOT AND THESE SOOTY DIAMONDS.  I AM TIRED OF THE WAY YOU BLAME ME FOR CHOICES YOU MADE OUT OF FEAR THAT YOU CONFUSED FOR PRUDENCE.  WILL YOU RECEIVE ME?