Brace Yourself

Don’t get it wrong — there’s something monstrous inside of each of us. No pure son of God. No last good man, I don't even remember what it is im supposed to be pretending to be.

Who hasn’t taken a walk on the wild side, walked down the bad roads at suspicious hours.

Who hasn’t caught a sweet stink in their nose that just won’t wash out? I say chase it; it’s good for the soul; you’ve gotta push yourself, push the edge.

But you — you’re sick. You’re what’s wrong with all this. A vestigial, depraved remnant. An old, proud crime.

You’d better shut the fuck up about it, ’cause I don’t want to hear it. There’ll be no coming to God for you. No pillars of paradise would deign to bear the weight of your obscenity your filth.

You know. You know, or you’re lying to yourself — come on, it’s obvious. Well, we all know.

Clamp real good and tight down on those chains. That rattle — that’s all the safety net you get. Make sure that mask is on nice and snug; Lord knows you can’t afford a fuck-up.

Let slip no secrets ’twixt thine twisted teeth — or else.