"Everybody gets something out of every transaction." -Joe Mantegna in "House of Games"
In a previous posting I discussed Con Men and Religion, religion being defined as bullshit one makes up in order to feel good about oneself. Now, I certainly understand the desire to trust, it's a natural human instinct predators take advantage of. But one cannot safely trust in this world without an equal measure of self-honesty. If one insists on lying to oneself, expect your trust to be betrayed. A Fort Worth retiree learned that lesson the hard way recently.
The scam was a classic one and the perpetrators were professionals. An elderly Hispanic woman claiming to hold a winning lottery ticket said she had no idea how to claim her prize. She used the old "You look like an honest man to me" trick. The retiree even helped with his own self-con warning her to watch out for muggers. Now, who doesn't like to be told they are an honest person and then get to play the role of protective hero to boot? And in exchange for receiving the woman's compliments and good wishes, the man emptied his bank account.
An accomplice showed up dressed in a sharp and respectable manner. No rebel he but rather a man of good standing in the community, no doubt. Con men are always clean cut - that always means something to the self-deceived. He too wants to help: helping to "prove" the ticket is a winner and also to help cash it. In order to prove he wouldn't run off with the winnings the woman herself could not cash, he offered up good faith money of $12,000. This then made the retiree feel obligated to put up his own good faith money, the said $4,000.
He's showing me his cards. He must trust me!
Complaining of hunger, the woman had them drive to a donut shop. The retiree went in and when he came back out, they were gone. Variations of this con have been used for over a century now. It continues to work because there's never a short supply of people who need to feel good things about themselves - even if it's false. The clean cut con man repeatedly affirmed to the retiree they were doing the right thing and God had sent them to help the old woman in her hour of need.
The family of the retiree was deeply embarrassed by the entire episode but wanted the story publicized in hopes of avoiding further victims. I suspect they had no idea how long the "good faith money" scam has been in operation, though. But like Michael Jordan, you can't hope to stop it, only (maybe) contain it. There's lots of guilty people walking around - mostly capitalists looking to atone for their dog-eat-dog philosophy (but not to give it up, of course!)
Even if you don't like the answers you get, it's always best to be honest with yourself. There's never an advantage to lying about anything. All lies are destined to die.
Watch and learn (check out Part 5 to see the actual "short con"):
Hate-ist Pat Buchanan running for Grand Dragon Republican Nominee in 1992
When I first moved out onto my own I lived on the edge of town with a few other scattered trailers and Derek was my closest neighbor. Derek, though he had his faults, was a bit of a free spirit, which always appeals to me. And his favorite saying was, "Everybody's the same on the inside." It comforted me that he knew that so I wouldn't be alone with that knowledge. Little did I know then how rare that knowledge would be.
When God looks down into our reality, souls have no color. Nor do they have religion or nationalistic identity or any other rot we decide to make up and call real. We are just souls. Souls with different characteristics - and in different states of health - but the differences God sees are ones of beauty, like the differences from one flower to the next, each one unique in what it has to share. And whoever considered that beauty to be unimportant?
It's an eminence front, it's a put on
We did, of course. Because we're morons. There is only one race on this planet: the human race. So how the fuck can you be a racist with only one race?? Why do we continue to pretend that's even possible? It's beyond absurd for one human to point to another and say, "You're not of my race!" One may claim such a thing. One may even believe such a thing. But one can have no true sincerity in saying such a thing. It's like denying your own existence.
The term racism has become synonymous with the word hate and it's understood to be pretty much interchangeable. But labeling that hate "racism" somehow makes it more palatable, giving it an air of unwarranted legitimacy. "Oh, he's not just a regular asshole, he's understandably discomforted by someone outside his race." Wrong. He is a regular asshole because there is no one outside his race. The day we truly make progress on "race relations" is the day we stop using the word "racism".
The ultimate hate crime
We could get technical and try to pry open everyone's head to get the exact term. Terms like "skinism" or "culture-ism" or "you're-different-than-me-ism". But who's got time for that? Let's just call it what it is: "hate-ism". And I think that puts things in a vastly truer light if we start using terms like he's a "hate-ist cop" or someone's yelling "hateful slurs" or conducting "hateful profiling". I think the hate-ists would find it far more distasteful to be referred to in those more honest terms.
The reality is hate-ism is just a cover for insecurity - which makes us all hate-ists to one degree to another. Now, it's true if everyone thought just like me the world would be a vastly better place for me. (First off, no one would be trying to run my life and the necessity of trust would be realized as a vital founding component of any society - but I digress). But with no two people alike it leaves us awash in a sea of differences, exposing each of our own strengths and weaknesses.
It's no secret Texas is an unabashed source of hate-ism. Sure, we hate on blacks but hey, let your hair grow too long and suddenly you're of another "race". Say you're for peace and you're of another race. Or be a liberal and become the modern Jew. This is perfectly demonstrated in the clip below with Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper discussing the hatred encountered while filming Easy Rider (yup, those guys in the cafe were sharing their unscripted feelings):
There's another term for someone who's insecure: loser. What classmates did you respect in school? Certainly not the insecure ones who never stood up for anyone (including, ultimately, themselves). And that's what hate-ists are as well, losers. Whether hiding behind a badge or a bible or plain ol' bullshit, we need to call these people out - even if we call ourselves out in the process. Truth - it does a (global) body good!
All I know folks, is in the end, I don't really care why your goddam fist is hitting my face, I just know that it is. And for that, I'm going to snap your fucking neck and break your goddam back - in the most permanent way possible.
This public service announcement brought to you by Mrs. Robinson (Jesus loves you more than you will know)
News of the Tate-LaBianca murders has spread outrage across the country. In response to a growing clamor for action, Charles Manson, the mastermind behind the deaths, and his "family" were called before Congress today. Congressional representatives vowed to teach Mr. Manson and his ilk a painful lesson by inflicting the severist possible of tongue lashings. Rep. Barney Frank was quoted as telling the monster, "There's a great deal of anger in the country, much of it justified."
Rep. Michael Capuano pulled no punches, boldly declaring outright his thinking Manson's acts were "illegal " and "cannot believe" Mr. Manson had not been prosecuted for them. Some observors did detect a suppressed smile on Mr. Manson's face when Rep. Capuano stuck out his tougue and bluntly informed Mr. Manson, "America doesn't trust you anymore."
Rep. Brad Sherman also frothed with righteous rage at Mr. Manson's use of private aircraft, which created a sonic boom during the funeral of his victims. In what had to be a very painful moment for the family, Rep Sherman unequivocally fumed to Mr. Manson, "You could sell them."
After the gruesome and bloody murders were committed, Rep. Paul Kanjorski seethed with news Manson Family members had rifled victim's pockets. In a most urgent tone, Rep Kanjorski admonished, "Please find a way to return that money before you leave town."
The House Finance Subcommittee posed for a portrait after the hearings
Fiscally concerned Republican Rep. Gresham Barrett seemed mildly upset at the Manson Family's implied selfish behavior with the money taken, timidly suggesting it might possibly be donated to help the victims' families. Clearly noting he was not speaking for himself, but rather his constituents, Barrett complained they "simply have not seen the evidence that the money you were given is working or making their lives better."
At this point, Manson chaffed under the heavy criticism (which many pointed to as a sure sign change for the better was on the way and absolutely no need existed for passage of choking and restrictive laws to prevent further seemingly criminal acts like those committed by the Manson Family). Mr. Manson indicated in a quite factual manner the need for a highly rewarding bonus structure to prevent future egregious acts, regardless of the behavior or harm his family may inflict.
Mr. Manson dismissed the obvious ignorance that only a non-Family member could hold, thusly explaining the need for a bonus structure: "It's complicated."
In a surprise appearance, Bette Midler, who lost her entire fortune in the California real estate crash, sang these words to Mr. Manson and his family:
Ms. Midler's singing visibly disturbed Mr. Manson who stormed away from the table decrying what he called a ridiculous furor over a few dead bodies and it wasn't as if he created a global economic crisis damaging the lives of millions, throwing families out into the street, saying only true monsters could do such a thing. Manson declared his support of family values was self-evident.
Fellow Manson family members. Would you a buy a used car from those faces?
Troublemaking protesters intent on debasing the very foundations of the rule of law were arrested, tasered and dragged from the proceedings. These vicious and wild-eyed monsters having the temerity to point out the passing of Congressional acts repealing the "Murder for fun" statutes, which some fringe elements assert may have had some slight and inadvertent influence on allowing Mr. Manson's murders for fun. Although many legislators present voted for said repeal, they did not let that diminish their outrage - with many highly paid and comfortable-for-life pundits declaring this to be brave acts of integrity on the congressmen's part.
In final statements, several congressmen also claimed to be "Shocked! Shocked!" at news of gambling in the back of Rick's Cafe Americain. Mr. Manson's lobbying firm - who called the grilling of their clients "unparalleled in American history" - also passed out videos explaining and defending the unforeseeable consequences of sticking a knife in a human body. As a fair and balanced, non-judgemental human and all around non-thinking good guy individual of the blameless media, this reporter has included the video below:
You've never been there for me before, why should You start now? But I got nowhere else to turn. Do all roads lead to death? I can't see what You're good for, God. I really just can't. Is there something I'm supposed to figure out that my brain just can't know? I've been working on it me whole life and it ain't come to me yet. Maybe I just can't figure out this puzzle. Maybe this has all been a waste of time. Truth be told, I don't think it would be right to call it anything but that.
Pop said I had to get a job even if it "kills ya". He said he wouldn't stand for having any bums in the family and if I died in the street then that's what I deserved. Can't be no other way, he always said. So I always had me a job even though the job was never me. And funny thing is, now I look back on it, Pop always hated his jobs too. He just passed that on like all parents do.
I've always been a working man cuz of my Pop. If I had tried something else and it failed, he'd a killed me and not thought twice about it. And when I look around me, I sees more people like me Pop than I see otherwise. First time I really settled into a job was when I was sweeping out the newspaper building. I bought me a beautiful car with that money, finest kind. But when I found out my boss was lying to me and stealing money from me and I went to get it back, well, I didn't have a job no more. See, that boss man was just like Pop, he knew I had to have that job, and I was just supposed to look the other way cuz the job is king.
I don't believe in Beetles
Where was You then, God? Should I have let that man cheat me? Is it really a sin to stand up for yourself? Tell You the truth, God, it sure do seem that way. I lost my car and had to buy this old Beetle with no heat or air. I found another cleaning job at night and when I drove home on those cold winter mornings I had no way to stop the ice forming on my windshield going down the road. I had to drive with me head out the window. Pop and the boss man and God all wanted it that way. You'd think one out of those three would like me.
I did everything after that. Bussing tables, throwing papers, cooking breakfast, back to cleaning again, driving a cab till I got robbed. See God, they told me that's what You wanted. That we got this world all set up just like God wants and if you don't tow the line you deserve to die then die again. I don't have no way of proving them wrong. I couldn't see no way of living without a job, either. Do You want me to die on the street, God? Is that Your plan? That's a mighty tough one. But it's the only one I can see You got for me iffen You want to disagree with Pop and everybody else.
I was hoping something somewhere along the way would happen. Now I think about it, I don't know why. There's just nothing here and never will be, will there? Just me and my fellow man and the hell we make. So I doubled down, stuffing down all my feelings like never before cuz I got to seeing they weren't of no use anyhow. I took one of them factory jobs, something I always fear'd cuz they steal the soul and put your mind in an iron cage with no hope of freedom ever again. But then, I figured, God ain't gonna give me freedom anyways so it must not be of any import.
An Auschwitz by any other name
Now it's nine years later. I got me those factory benefits and they gave me an official number they could call me by and I tried to represent myself as an upstanding citizen Pop and God could be proud of even though I was dying on the inside. Seems to me at that point, life was just about picking how you wanna die. But I made a good go of me act. Even latched onto a girl and we was gonna build our lives on my factory job and I had to pretend like I could keep on plucking them factory chickens till I die. None of any of that was real. The harder you try to do the right thing, the worse things get.
Lost my girl when gas shot up to $4 a gallon. We didn't have no extra money any more and we got to fightin' and hatin' each other so off she goes. That $4 gas changed me life. It let me know they can kill ya anytime they sees fit. Landlord at the apartment started billing me for his water. Insurance guy said he wanted more money and showed me how the city gonna take my car forever if I don't pay up. I hear everyone around me bitching about this, saying it ain't right, but then they get just like Pop saying this the way it gotta be. God don't love none of us.
But I'm at the end of me rope now, God. You be the most hardest ass person in the universe! Me hands are broken from all them years plucking chickens, making them birds so other peoples can eat 'em. My hands ain't no good for nothing now. The factory lawyer said I'm a bad man for trying to take money for my hands. The deciders just looked at the car he was driving and the car I was driving and just knew he was right. I can't hold no job now. I'm more tired than I ever been before. I tried hard. Harder than You ever did, God! Harder than Pop ever did too!
There's a reason why "lawyer" and "liar" sound so much alike
I don't want to die like this. Me hands all mangled up and never knowing love. I can't live doing what they say. Can't live doin' otherwise either. I don't get this. Round and round it goes in me head, never stops, trying to figure out what this is all about. If You gonna talk to me, God, now's the time to do it. I don't expect You will. You ain't seen no cause to do it before and Lord knows I needed You then too. There's never been a crumb of meaning in anything I done. All I wanted was just to be left alone, to breathe and feel like a person. But I don't know how to make money at that. And money is the real god ain't it?
This girl told me once the reason a person suffers a meaningless life is cuz he was one of the soldiers that put a nail in Jesus. So if You just put me here to suffer, God, all this makes sense. But if You tell me You wanted me to live, I don't get it. I don't get how You can say You wanted anyone to live...
Sorry fucks! I'll show them. "We need your particular kind of genius, Rollie." Ha! Thought you hit my blind spot didn't you? "Oh, just flatter the idiot! He thinks he's a genius!" I AM a genius - which means I'm smart enough not to show you all my cards. And which also means your sorry ass will never see this Molotov cocktail hit you upside your arrogant ass head!
You people really think you got it all figured out, don't you? Hiding in your high-rise towers, licking the treads off the killing tanks and staying oh so appropriately inebriated. Yeah, dude, you got the game rigged in your favor. But there ain't no end game to it! Yeah I know, you're thinking you'll bow out before your time is due and it all comes crashing down. Heh - that's funny. I would KILL to see the look on your face when God sends you back to clean up your own mess!
God, I love this storage room! This must be the same sense of power terrorists get hiding in their caves. Live where they expect you to and they know where to hurt you. But hide in here with my radio and I'm just fine - if that goddam KLUV DJ would just shut his goddam mouth and stop talking over the music. You're not clever, dude! I'm marking this cocktail just for you! That'll teach you an appreciation for art.
This is my secret place, my Tabernacle, my Holy of Holies. I remember the trip across the desert. We all knew it was something special, something to mark you for all time. But it was too much! God, it was too much! Life had far more meaning than we ever expected working in those fucking mud pits. We all just sort of wigged out. And the pain, the searing pain of dying in the dry desert sun. I couldn't hold the line. I've never held the line...
Damn, it still gives me goose bumps. The song...the movie...the dream...the power of life. No one knows what I hold in my hands. Neither the dreams nor the disasters. Stupid fucks at the shelter wonder where I go. Hehe, I saw you try to tail me that one time! You thought it was bad luck losing me! That's the art of it. Make them think it's on them, nothing deliberate. Stings like a bitch, doesn't it, Eddie! I knew after the break I'd "miss" on the 5 ball! HAHAHA!
Oh, shit! Who the fuck is coming in here this time of night. Get your shit some other time, dude! (Or maybe it's a chick! But it never is.) You're interrupting me and this is my time, twitface! Jesus, haven't you people hogged enough of this goddam world already? Better head this off at the pass. No one ever really suspects I'm living in here but sometimes they get that "there's something wrong with this picture" feeling and need their fears allayed.
Whew. Those two guys have problems of their own. Could care less about me. Regardless, they think I just got tons of shit to take care of and am using the radio to help me pass the time. What kind of loser lives in a storage unit? I live in a world too pathetic to suspect. But it makes the desperate world around me crystal clear. So no one wants to hear what I got to say, eh? OK, fine. Get a load of Puff the Magic Bimmer blowing up in your fucking face. That'll get them to notice my "particular sort of genius."
I don't know what to do..."Hey, lady, wanna share my cot at the shelter? How 'bout my low rise condo at Mac's Self Storage Units?" I'm trapped like a dog, going out of my fucking mind! I can know, but I can't say. I can say, but I can't know. But if I combine what I know with what I say they'll know everything. Every fuckup I ever did. I hate it when they think I'm stupid. I hate it when they think I'm smart. They never know when it's just me from when it's me throwing a boomerang at their empty heads.
I'm gonna blow up all their precious shit. Makes them madder than hell! That's when I'll OWN them. When you sell your soul for your toys it makes it pretty goddam unbearable to watch 'em go up in smoke! Their whole fucking lives will center around nothing but catching me and protecting their holy fucking shit. I can't have a personal life, well, neither can you, buttmunch! I never told you to get a job! I never told you you don't deserve to eat! I never told you to go off and die! Who the fuck are you to tell me ANYTHING, you ignorant fuck! If you actually KNEW anything, you wouldn't be telling me anything at all!
Damn, that's the same song that played while I was driving around, skipping the prom in shame after committing social suicide. I can still see the sunset...
Dear God, please let me die. I don't want to be here anymore. Nothing I do does any good anyway. She's out of reach now...and if she finds out about me blowing shit up, she'll know it's because I need her. I'll be exposed before all the world. "He doesn't really care about justice. He just misses me."
The problem with living in a bubble is the same as holding your breath. You can do it for a time - but not forever. But the cool thing about holding your breath is that it suspends reality. One can live underwater or walk through a poisonous cloud or a whole host of acts that allow one to separate from reality. And for many people that's the definition of success: separating from reality.
America is like one big, giant juicy bubble. In poorer parts of the world children are sold as slaves or live as de facto slaves in filthy factories. In other places warlords starve and rape as means of control. The disease of despair is spreading every day. Dreams come into this world stillborn, with life nothing more than one long struggle for survival until a final meaningless death. But in America, kids only have one question on their minds: "Can I please, please, please have unlimited text on my cell??" No wonder they want to take us down!
9/11 could have had a silver lining, bringing us out of isolation and into the world community (don't confuse intervention with interaction). May I humbly suggest it's in a person's national interest to see his neighbor is well fed. That way he doesn't get conked on the head in the middle of the night for his food. Others define our national interests differently - that of a bubble point of view, that we can live happily in our own little world as the rest of the world rots around us. But I prefer a plan that includes actually surviving.
Why would children with as bright a future as theirs ever attack anyone??
But that's just me, never the pragmatist. "Dumb ol' Harry. He never gets that survival is not practical!"
But America did not learn from 9/11, take its medicine and start to heal. Instead, we retreated more into bubbledom. "We'll show them damn terrorists what we're made of! We'll pee our pants but good!" And just to prove bubbles are a good thing, we created the greatest economic bubble in history. Take that, Bin Laden! We may be homeless but we be high fivin' in victory! Only losers face reality and America loves a winner! Just ask anyone who's still eating: Keep the bubble alive!
But what will the glorious future of our bubble lives look like? After one attack we peed our pants:
Even Moses has to show proper ID
We made our airports sacred, with signs saying: "Take off thy shoes, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground!"
Followed by other sacred commandments to ensure our very survival such as, "Thou shall carry no liquid greater than 3 ounces lest the plane drop mightily from the sky" and "Thou shall honor thy random strip search with all thy heart and all thy mind and all thy soul."
And now that we've been attacked we are like so totally smarter now and can spot them bad guys just by looking at them! Uh huh, oh yeah! Innocent until proven guilty? Kiss my ass! We'll arrest your ass first and find the crime later. The answer is just a waterboard away! Terrorists don't respect civil rights - neither should we!
But what happens after the next attack? Guess we shit our pants then!
Me so scared! Keep me safe!
No one boards a plane without first reciting the Pledge of Allegiance - both forwards and backwards (that goes for you too, traitorous infants - might be dynamite in those diapers). You will also be required to say "Mohammed was a pussy" and eat a slice of ham.
All loyal Americans will also set up surveillance cameras in their own home to prove they are patriotic 24/7. Voting will no longer be secret so we can find out who's voting for commies and social welfare. We can then "re-educate them" in special Haliburton camps. A Department of Hysterics will be created to "keep us on our toes" to ensure we don't "start down the slippery slope of civil rights" again.
Flag tattoos are required because "no true American would object". "Xenophobia" is declared an official religion. Chuck Norris is elected President of Texas and renames Austin "The Octagon".
After the third attack, we basically just drop our pants!
Questioning the President is treason!
The Robespierre Party rises to power instituting a "Reign of Terror on Terror". Terrorist hunts are conducted nightly with mobs of angry torches. It will be deemed a truism: "If your house is on fire, you must be guilty!"
Airplane travel will be restricted to government agents only. Don't question them! They are on a mission from God to keep us safe! (Wildly popular movies will be churned out showing painstakingly rights-conscious government agents blowing up only bad guys and tending their orphaned babies - as if it could be otherwise!)
Anyone who didn't set up self-surveillance cameras after the second attack is arrested for "hiding something." Also, anyone caught not smiling happily to live in America is taken to the ever expanding Haliburton re-education camps. Haliburton stock takes off. Keep the bubble alive, baby!
After the fourth attack we're running stark naked down the street!
How the Republicans retake power
In a desperate appeasement to keep the terrorists happy, Bin Laden is elected President. We convert into an Islamic state, extend our work hours to make up for time spent in the daily calls for prayer and pass a law only priests may hold government office.
Military induction is mandatory as is goose stepping in solidarity. All mail and email must be submitted for approval which is never granted - only terrorists want to communicate with each other! All unpatriotic art will be burned to keep our children's minds "pure". The word "peace" is voted the most dangerous word in the English language.
Sirens wail day and night in perpetual fright. Scientists "discover" a terrorist gene. Babies are tested, those who fail are destroyed to keep "the next Hitler from being born". For unity's sake, all thought is banned and a special new "mind blanking" pill is distributed by Haliburton, the sole remaining corporation. Ultimate victory is declared "just around the corner" until the very end.
So be practical! Be a puppet! Capitulate your way to safety!
The village was nestled high in the Bavarian mountains. Its stunning beauty was the kind travel agents hundreds of years in the future would rave about, bringing sticky fingered children and gawking tourists who would absorb the beauty, digest it and look for the next edible bite to consume and eschew. The surrounding forest was magical in its reflection. Passing through its inviting trees, one kept expecting to find mischevious elves or gleeful fairies or even a gingerbread house to eat. Among the brooding, dark Germanic forests, this one glowed bright - and the source of that light came from the luminance of this isolated and untouched village.
Fate had curiously blessed this mountain oasis with opera - or rather, one could say opera made this secluded retreat an oasis. As the rest of the world worshiped hard steel and punctured chain mail and the charge of snarling horses into battle, the lives of the villagers centered around the release of grand, soaring operas, written as if they had their own personal channel from God. Like a beam from the heavens was their "Operatist", as he was dubbed. And though his operas would never know the light of day of the greater world, it made them no less true or wonderful.
This ray of light I shine on thee
"Opera day" - the day new music was announced - was more eagerly awaited than food, water or air to breathe. Rumors circulated on how close the latest masterpiece was to being released, a communal orgasm shared by every living soul. Solos and riffs echoed in the villagers' voices for weeks afterwards, amazed at their good fortune of hearing the true word of God. Can it be? they wondered. Can what we hear really be true? In a world that trained for war, the Operatist's burg trained for dance. Hearing the driving beat and infectious rhythms, the tears and laughter of exquisitely expressive violins, the sheer triumphant joy of that exact moment, they were helpless to do otherwise. "Stupid smiles" were the facial norm - yet only to an outsider was any explanation required.
Perhaps these operatic flights were a delicacy for which this dark age was not yet ready. Over the centuries, guilt had swept the world into despair, recoiling in slow motion horror with the realization of having crucified its savior. These diseased and dirty people imagined witches and heretics in every corner, figments of their own guilty souls. What meaning could life have now? Oppressive religion hammered itself into the land in arrogant mockery of the true Word, but its false hope for redemption only gave rise to mad priests with mad souls. It was a time of sorrow for an inexcusable act - but even sorrow can't last forever.
A song from the edge of time
Funny how sometimes something everyone knows is true is never said. There was no special beam of light shining down on the village the naked eye could see and yet every villager knew it to be there. Its portal lived in the great white ivory tower on the edge of town. The Operatist never claimed to write any opera but merely recorded what he heard in his ear. He said the trick was to never insert any of his own notes. But to hear this dictation from God, the noise of the world must be kept out. So only in this remote refuge did light creep tentatively back into the world, making the forest around it glow and the eyes of its inhabitants bright in the reflection.
Sadly, the Operatist who brought joy to the world could not bring that same joy to himself. To no villager could he speak his name, forced to remain unknown in a world not yet ripe for living. And though his music was pure, he himself was not, lusting after the teenage virgins he spied through the third floor window of the insular tower his art demanded. Despairing of love, unable to communicate freely with a hostile world, he turned on himself, ending his life of beauty and horror. Ultimately, his flower never took root - maybe in a later time he'd find a more receptive globe.
Songs from times of pre-history remembered once more
Alchemists thrived during this time, claiming to turn lead into gold - never understanding that if true, then gold itself would become worthless with its abundance. Alchemy sprang from the vain hope of finding good from evil and then to undo the harsh fate of their withering lives. But it also spoke of a belief in a magic unarticulated, a distant echo just out of reach of hearing ("Do I dare believe such a hope?"). That even with the despair of their deadly deed, life still held out an olive branch, calling them back, praying they would listen and stop breaking the heart of their Maker. But letting light back in the world would not be so easy.
"Everybody gets something out of every transaction."
He's showing me his cards.
