Here’s the thing: I look at the world. I don’t see it for what it is. I see it for what I see it as. Whether is should be this or that is irrelevant, I think, as this is an exercise in futility and, most of all, I dislike futility. This is my qualm with literary criticism, theology, and philosophy. Not that these shouldn’t be studied, of course, but leave the pouring and obsessing over for another man. I am not a scholar, not a theologian, not a philosopher. God has placed me here with a gift to write, sometimes to speak, but often to speak too much, so I stick with writing. What I write must be, and can only be, as a hammer only pounds nails, what is me and I, and never thee and thou. In fact, no one writes but me and I, but many are called to universalize theirs, making a freakish monstrosity of the whole thing, all scars and borrowed parts, yet appealing to a larger crowd. Not so with I. Me and I, two but one, is the only pure lens, pure in its isolation, marveled and ridiculed when shared and defiled. This is my calling, and I shall be bashed and maimed and cajoled all my days, most harshly by myself. On we go, then.