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Why Not Make of Me a God? the question of why we are here has been banded around by poets and such like a rabid dog in harness-- assuming a proximity to the beast that never really existed. letting out a little slack then pulling it back in again but always keeping their distance. never coming close enough to pet its fur to smell its breath to take a bite from its skybound ears. the reason we are here is an obvious one. to amuse the gods, of course. and if you don't believe in gods, then invent some. why not, when there is nothing else you believe in? and if you haven't the imagination for that make of me a god! my heritage is as noble as any-- landowners, statesmen and financiers... alcoholics, depressives, slaves. make of me a god! pimp my name in the temples and cathedrals. build me up to the point of exquisite holiness. suck the bile from my wounds the puss from my sores. grain by grain draw out the sand from between my toes. make of me a god! worship me, build statues, erect monuments. throw your hearts into the fire to fuel my ascension. toss in your eyes, your ears and belongings then watch me burn on the limp pyre you created. make of me a sacrifice! me, another god who promised everything and delivered nothing.
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