By what Grace, hath thou who cannot be named, described, worshipped, nor seen, made me - above all other precious living things that stalk the Earth, to be human and nothing other. It is perhaps your omni-consciousness too divine that this purpose of being descedent of Eve, I cannot perceive. So Lord - please let me this convenience of designation - if you could kindly tell, what, truely, do we, usurpers of evolutionary chain, self-named warden of the gate to prosperity or destruction, who crown ourselves as the specie that go withershins, like-God, proud, deceitful yet remarkably frail, hath any preciousness over a innocent squirrel, a golden philomel, or a loving tigress? By what Grace, hath you my Lord, made me audience of this orchestra of love and lies, taster of bitter cognizances and sweet ordeals, guest of political bureaucracy, host of the dilemma of being or not being. Shall I thank thou, Lord, for placing me in such heaven of guilt, so that in my next to be, I shall be free of this mortal coil? -- In the House of Remaining Snow, We dance and sing, make merry while the days are long. --

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