It is truly said that the highest reward for toil is not what you get for it but what you become by it. In this case, double flipflop lateral mount heroine to the teeming multitudes. Put the scowl down, brave gladiator; you are freed. Freed to a champion’s welcome and golden decades of joy and pleasure.
A wearisome burden, my heart heavy in its bony cage. But see now! Brow furrowed, lips swallowed with the stoicism born of a hundred toilsome nights. I know this is right. I know this is the natural product of my logos, and worth any price paid in motility or glamor. I’m on to something pure, something real. This is it.
I need you to know me. I need you to understand what animates me, what obliges me to indicate via pugnacious gustatory display the horror I am experiencing, right now. Looking at the tenantless vacuity where your digital heart ought to be, with my own looking on, solicitous, I need you to imagine my interior world, stripped bare of vanity, longing to hear your final confession.
“Grim overlord of affliction, grant me your favor on this most extraordinary of days. In my epoch of ascendancy, behold: the triplestacked acme of my industry. In Your name, and apportioned solely to Your purpose, until the lakes of this foul globe run crimson with the blood of your enemies. Benedictus qui venit in nomine Luciferi. Hosanna in excelsis.”
They mock us with laughter, these enchanting harlots. Mock our doctrine, our determined attempts to acquaint them with its glory. Until at last we trudge wearily on, crestfallen and atrabilious, still compelled by this yearning to free the world and thereby ourselves from the superincumbent knowledge we share. Yet take heart! Ought we not to rejoice collectively on a scale scarcely imaginable when the hardened shoe-loather repents and turns to us? Is not the admission of a single soul to our congregation worth each and every hardship and privation?