Like a scantily clad debutante moonlighting in the crumbling pages of the Secret Gospel of Mark, saved from homoerotic Jesus-Christ-posterior-posturing infamy by a few prudish episkopoi ('scuse the undeclined glamor, hellenophiles), you count your blessings like cards while you hold 'em, ciphering afterworldly chances on pudgy pugilistic digits of absentminded longing. On the other hand, history has forgotten her most favorite eromenos, having played each player a plaything. Even on his anniversary, a god's son's most delicious and proficient concupiscent initiate lies facedown and alone on a cot of soiled feathers, discarded like a broken universe that never made it to the debugging phase. (You can't be trusted as far as your salad can be tossed, filthy eunuch.) The proverbial Big Bird has flown, like suddenly the eudaimonical genius took a fletching leap from the babbling tower of true will, a cacofiendish imposter bellyflopping the host organism parkinglotward unto a sour surly blind date with the Parcas. Now the god dismantled in the mirror is a coon discarded as inferior, a bandit-faced prototype narcissistically fed into the gaping recyclable maw of creation. Herein lays destruction. Herein lies the filthy philandering concretized Carmelite cookie crunching cameltoe dyad lapping at the foamy shores of memory, lusting at the foolish Mohammedabad falafel-feltching limits of perception. The cloudy doors of contraception are aching for an ennobling nibble: the lonely lion gnaws the nuptial nub of nubile freedom of the won't. Like Apollonius of Tyana freebasing dhyana, the lids half-closed, the circuits fully open, you realize La Paranoia willst du destroyen, doyen bist pussyfuss surfing the fat fleshy resurrected foreskin of Armageddon with Zoroaster & Sons Ltd.