On Procrustean Bed, She Bled Me Piety
Trivial thing like paltry sum of Linden is enough for spite of hatred. With my history of disgust over avarice, I resent more on your quest for small fortune all in the while I’m trying to help you getting a spot of so called “wealth”. I resent that, even I didn’t get offended (much) of you accusing me to monopolize the valley of Solomon.
Hate me? Why? Just because of petty things like getting a few cent moonlighting even though you get paid doing the same job on the stage.
Hate me, and spirited yourself to your eponymous Archimedes’s exultation next time when I’m in world. I only get respect if I’m kowtowing you without a hitch, even if I don’t have the wherewithal to remain servile. I’m not the deus ex machina, running every ounce of your will with miracle.
Just that you know, there’s a glitch in the system while I bother to help you. A phantom running a ghost in the shell. If that’s so hard to understand, you don’t need to understand. It’s easier to accuse and fall to your own desire for “profit”. Prosperity is only an instrument to be used, not a deity to be worshipped.
When I fail to acknowledge your pursuit, it’s almost I utter a blasphemy, worthy of your hatred. Like ancient Procrustes you forced me to fit perfectly into a bed of piety by cutting off and stretching my limbs. Unrestrained autonomy of self right.
I rather have myself excommunicate than going limbless.
If this is a drama, it’s a Greek tragedy. A familial history that saturate into adoration of false piety.
It disgust me.