And so the lost souls arrive at the gate without a clue. Bereft of substance and presence, desperate for answers which only they can provide and yet they persist with their futile enquiries. Has it always been like this? How sad; how sorry: what is life without the certain prospect of death? And yet it remains a surprise to the unsuspecting fools, these corruptors of words who remain fumbling in the dark because they cannot explain what it is that they think or feel with all of their pretty words dressed up in their deceptive Sunday best. And I must just be patient, lest I in my haste condemn their souls to eternal damnation.
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