I was a nihilist, peering through the key hole. Left behind, like some kind of step child. Raise your voice at me. Raise your hand at me. Make me feel dégagé and hallucinogenic. But that’s why I have lysergic acid diethylamide. So numb, pain can’t penetrate. I am an imitation of your demons. Gyrate through the death times. Withered and sane, incubated and left to rot. We are all martyred, knocking on the door of God. Why won’t he let us in? What have we done? Bow down, use a martingale on us. You have become my martinet. We run trying not to become a marten, the dupe. Don’t want to hear the kvetch. Don’t want to be here at all. Orchestrated for the new and improved celebrities. Dead and then forgotten. That was You.