I exploited it before I understood what I could take, and I sold it for plays. I wanted my name in Neon Glow; the fiction was my addiction, and I drove the fiction to the point of crucifixion. I stood there with lies deep in my eyes and swears making love to my tongue. I should've just let the serenity ring. Oh, but I sing gloriously over the graves— the people I wanted to see me in celestial light and rave, now paralyzed by every close of day. The Shepherds no longer remember sheep; the wolves have no option but to feast. The beasts of great old belief now sit idle, perplexed by lost dreams of normalcy. They all cannot just be. I saw a bell of the ball cut her hair. The men stared and mocked, but crack, she did not dare. This was what my plague of fiction was for the people who listened. Redemption is admitting you once gave it all to temptation. In some way, I thought it was just my imagination. I sold all the prophets out and sent them to damnation. I refused the golden calf. The serpent's staff. Even Jesus got turned away. To this day, I have no idea what happened to him or his mistitled prostitute—Sarah, Beth, I cannot remember her name. All the same. I think the last time I heard, Rome was no longer a great institute. It lies in ruins, but I am sure we will get back there in time. I think for now I will keep my mind on a shelf, but Cinderella is coming to town. I will hook her up with Muhammad if he is done listening to Gabriel. What happens to wild horses in a stable? I would ask the Asvins, but they are off saving Gandhi in the afterlife. I hope he did not decide to finally pick up the knife. I resign myself to fiction and will only dilute the truth in such a way it cannot sit or stay. Hopefully, this will even out if