We Are Not A Muse The crowds of humans I attracted all denominate their common loathing, brothers in the blood-baths of their empty eyes. All the grace and poise and taste of a slot-machine I have and don’t you know which way the money goes. What am I an eternal and ethereal spirit ? Did I help the fucking, farting Greeks. Did they help me? Onward into the valley of death rode the fucking idiots. Game over written in their deluded mud. I wash my metaphorical hands in a metaphor of water and nothing is created nothing is destroyed everything is transformed. See how patiently I do not take out my razor and swipe at those craning necks all hoping it’s a lynching this time. I am not Diana, I am Denial. Go home.