I take the underground at night. to read the book in which god hates us all. this is my asylum to escape the pointless snippets of conversation and shun the search for a gap for my empty gaze.
but today I hear the laught of a little crowd among the passengers. in the first moment I do not see it is dedicated to the jacket of the book. aiming at the eyes of two pale spiritualists. I find them embarrassed looking floor. and still I am aiming at their faces with my paper crucifix. this moment belongs to me then my destination arrives.
I go upstairs the book jammed unter my arm and my hand is looking for a cigarette.
I insist.
this is the true wrath of my divinity.
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