Certainly I had been thrown to the lions, vicious bloodthirsty beasts, feigning humanity as they dealt in the most lewd forms of ritualistic torture. How could I have been aware, how could I have known, clothed merely in satin's silly sentiments, having foolishly lost my way. But to learn what is meant by hysteria, as well as the fear served up in Sejanus's saucer, I broke and was ready to meet what I considered to be my destiny. But low and behold as I sat on my couch pleading late on into the evening, waiting for the sun to rise, the film Michael appeared on my television screen, "not that kind of Angel," arguing and answering questions. I had never seen the film and didn't quite understand; the typical pattern saw the rhythms of David Bowie and the Rolling Stones (early 70s) save me from myself, proof, that I had aged. And that Angel sauntered back and forth upon the screen, instilling the image with the utmost integrity and illumination, unfortunately distilled by the industrious manufacturers of Hollywood's "Slacker Culture," and I rose a free man, intent on reform, surrendered to signs, saved by a sideline, in tact; having circumvented their claws and tethered their teeth, the same very claws and teeth I saw prior to viewing the globe out of which shot electro-magnetic waves, I rose to sleep once more and dream tranquil, peaceful dreams.

Having survived.