I am set to arrive any day now, in the place of my choosing. Might it be agony that I’ve chosen as my particular destination of self-annihilation, the one of my making, or might I yet still have time to find myself in the heaven that I believed? Belief is not about what I imagine there to be, it’s about the truth of what there is in this; my exactness, but more important than any of that, is the truth of where I am, an instinct that is not in doubt, until I forget my duty. Agony is what you’ll be handed at your own culpable paws. The earth is most loving, for it is but full love, yet, when earth’s children begin to plot her murder, the end of the rope’s been reached… I will never fly past my orbit; it’s my thinking wits that tell me this. I am home, ladies and gentlemen. I am home on my heavenly love, which seems now more like hell, for it is what my kind has made of it. Imagine the deceit that had to come packed to the hilt with utter fear to begin to pull off a plot such as ...
(The Weaver's Song)