John

We have our very own chapel here, complete with pews and stained glass portraits of a woman I think looks somewhat like me, holding a boy who looks somewhat like you. And there is a big TV on wheels, flatscreen, with a webcam. I would like it to broadcast my confessions and prophetic screeches and salacious wonders. And you can keep playing the piano, that song for me. 

And since I only order tea, I am a cheap date, but not in the way the waitress remarks. Rather in the way that only you or I, or actually only I may know. I may not know however, and I think I do not. 

And this is why we have coined the term “demonic crushings”. Instead of perverted yearnings, or adorned tragedy. And I am confessing that I am a woman of worldly desires.

​​ For everything in the world—the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life—comes not from the Father but from the world.

And I learned the gas station rules quickly, like a good girl. That they leave you while you pay. That you look under the car when you get back, and try to figure out what was making that noise on the highway. Sometimes, you come to discover, that it was your own demented tidings, scraping against the asphalt, and you must collect them quick before he sees. Is that too on the nose? Am I too naked, pressed up against the tile walls of the shower? Heavenly hand in my mouth?

And when you ultimately come to discover that the song was not for you, that It was in fact just scales, that the webcam is off, the television unplugged, the tea cold, the perversions already repented for, and the gas station closed, then you can finally understand, that the lust of the flesh comes not not from the Father, but from the world.