I do not know. I believe. I don’t know. I am but a man. I’ve done little to dissuade the talon’s in my own hands, save for screaming and crying out loud! Save for my most despicable sin; abandonment of belief, of child, of true Love, of truth. But this is not about me. It is about that which sustains me without my asking as the crimson fireball of my collective desire is imminent. I do not know. I believe. O! What a thing am I and my dreams of control! Escalating rage and suspicion strutting about the span, taking their place in the conclusion of the unknowable. I do not know. I believe. Why copy what another thinks because I just can’t be? I do not know. I believe. My kind's gutless that way, emptied of any feast for truth, beholden to that which cannot be taken back, which cannot tote sustenance to a child’s lips. I didn’t dream this! It is real! It is the spirit’s will! It is ready! It is ...
(The Weaver's Song)