IN·NOMINE·PATRIS·ET·FILII·ET·SPIRITVS·SANCTI·AMEN

I am but a buck at the edge of the overhang, this overhang, which was a solid rocky thing, though now slick with soot, which hurriedly leapt away from the forest and out into the still air that night, that night which, well, it wasn't still, I lied; it was hot, and it was angry. At the edge of this overhang, I sat wearily. I watched out over that burning town, that ruptured lung, that still-beating heart, that cradle, that fuckin' cesspit.

I found myself thinking of you. Of the things you did. Have done. Unwittingly, maybe, though I reckon at least partially willing. Aware at least. I ask why. As in - why? Didn't you create the entire thing? Didn't you sculpt that crippling vista with your own skin and bone? Did you conjure that dæmon? Did you love us? Throughout, or ever at all? Was there a plan? Was this entropy? Was spreading our cheeks and driving yourself into us as you press our face into the ash part of that deal? D'ya take pleasure in watching me contribute?

You · God · Mr. President · Father · Mother · Love · All · Me

The evil sunbeam permits the growth of an evil sunflower. Fair enough, I suppose. You can't fight nature, s'what I was told. Didn't stop the anger, though. I couldn't care less if it were predestined or no - 'cause it was in me to hate you for it, no matter when, if, how, why, or to whom it happened. I could forget sometimes, though it was what kept those shadowy corners of my psyche shrouded in their way. I could've lived in denial, but it would have killed me. Because every time, at night, when it'd get dark, I would pray for that swirling, nauseating music to play in my mind, because when it didn't, and it got quiet, I'd think of you. And there was no hiding it then, because you did this turning of me into a fetid rat. So I found a proper shit dogend wet on the floor and I lit it best I could and I got to thinkin'.

One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter. S'what I was told. And so as I sat on that overhang, the one that juts out from the forest like a panicked hare, and I looked at that smouldering city, that world of embers, and I remembered: you're down there too. Choking on your own fumes. I smiled, wanted to dance. I was ecstatic. But I wasn't blind. You'd weasel your way out of it, 'course you would, I knew that. So I declared war. I wasn't just gonna fight for an ideal, been done too many times. Doesn't work. I decided I'm gonna go until there's nothing. Until it's your face in the ash. Mine too. Hell, everyone's. Sick of the botulism. There will be no backwards meritocracy anymore. There is not one place in this sick realm where those tendrils dare not violate. And so I discard the entire package. Whole lot's gotta go. I declared a war within which the sun will be extinguished, the rotten soil will be dredged up, and every last sunflower hung for his or her crimes. All I ask is a seat kept warm for me at the gallows. You can have last laugh, for old time's sake. You are the deer hunter, after all, and I am but a buck.

IN·NOMINE·PATRIS·ET·FILII·ET·SPIRITVS·SANCTI·AMEN