Freedom is poison for small souls who naturally see themselves sinners; this is the nature of mine which I see most often in myself, second son of a king; a wish upon a star ungraspable; a knowing dream, describable but fading with morning’s fog. It rises, this lust, but I do not know her well enough to approach; she strikes too loud, too complex a chord for my ears. I cannot harmonize with her nor even rhyme. We are, most all of us, born to bastards, and bastards do we become; slaves of the state deprived of status—even a lowly one; thus do we sing simple slave’s songs. To know truth—the truth that tells its own truth: nothing is true, not even I, and all is permitted—is the fact too frightful for the unkingly, the uninitiated and thus our elaborate morality, our heavenly anchors; for fathers do the initiating, and, as I have said, we are all bastards of bastards. The sin of our fathers is not their own, but those of old methuselah himself. So sin and death and morality and slaves wages we pursue, poisoned by freedom and her frightening truth.