The doom and gloom that we surround ourselves with is but our own creation. We are the birds who walk into a cage, refusing freedom and continue to lament. Am I one such bird? Maybe I'm or maybe I'm not, but it's not relevant, or maybe it is. I'm more indecisive than a woman from the Elizabethean era. No, I'm not. But I can be a reincarnation of a woman from the Elizabethean era, God's private little joke on me and my former self. While I go around as a yokel, the tormented soul of the fawning Lady used to regal fanfare swoons. Why o why, I cry! My head hurts. A thousand needles have their tips on my face, caressing me casually, and then the hammers start beating in. Pierced equidistantly. Mathemetical precision of the highest quality. Black blood drips. And it's all over. A wet dream. We all wake up to the stark reality of mediocrity that abounds. We need another Swift and another Gulliver. Another mediocre success to bleed us dry. And still I cry. For I'm filled with fear. Filled with remorse. Filled with guilt. Filled with trite bullshit. That's what we are. Full of. From the top to the bottom. From head to toe. From the bloated ass to the erect penis. Indeed, our plight is worse than that of the faggots of Sodom and Gomorrah. Yet, we seek divine intervention. Is there none to come?