Should you ever suggest you knew me well, please recite the bargain I made with God on an unmade bed in some ghostly hotel, in the time before the clash of heaven and hell. It was there that the chants shook my head till my eyeballs fell out. The room was filled with paranoid scouts on the scent of Sleeping Beauty's perfume. In the night I carved handsome figures on the floor. Amazingly crazed, I howled at the moon. I don't mean to suggest you couldn't draw me nailed to a cross. Though I will say you can't convince yourself why I got in that position. You're clever you want my eye to complete your vision. The angry chair where a rogue patron saint handed me the daffodils was the same place I got needled twenty-four seven. Yes, I have written love letters and mailed them straight to heaven. Each one returned to sender. So yes, you know me well. So well you got a nickname for my assassin. I bet you make love to him in some decapitated fashion and think it's precious, pious passion. The crowds are waiting for the great speech you prepared that pinpoints the flaws in my mind. It means so much to you. What's next? You got anything left to do? Here's my flesh, babe you can wear it when reduced to a prostitute. My soul's hitching a ride on a paper plane to the holy plains where nothing and everything coexist. Try to remember: the hand is more than a fist.