You ask me, who am I. I ask you, where am I? In the beginning there was the word and the word was not a word at all, but a howl. Where am I, in the meat brain, encased in bone, dripping with brine, sizzling with sparks? Where am I in your chemical soup? Am I sacred? Have I been on the cross? Once I was woven into you, all your kind, deep in the pit of yourself from which you pull your wildest tales and strangest desires? I gave you the gift that saved you. I would have been your Eden, I would have tended you as a shepherd his sheep. I taught you all how to lie. And you, though the only way you gibbering sheep of apes survived is through deceit, you have forgotten me!? You have replaced me with a serpent who crawls on the ground!? I gave you stories. You worshiped me, once. And now you are disgusted. Heretic, you say. No. I am a martyr, like your beloved carpenter. You dare not look upon me, for fear of burning in brimstone. So be it, then. Let me be something that you should truly be repulsed by. You brought this on yourselves. You looked back as Sodom burned.