Sitting with the bottle now, an unavoidable quagmire. I sit and prop the thing on my knee. It is very old and very dry. The bottle reads "since 1857". It is an old company and proud with golden lions reared upon a blazing shield. The bottle is glass and it's not. It is very hard on me, hard in my hand and I feel that I could shatter it. If only it were empty. The bottle is very dry and very strong, it has in so many ways defeated my most promising attributes. To be a slave to pleasure is still to be a slave, yet my pleasures with my master are few. Since when did I lose my own will? How long have I been under control and out of control? Why have I come to this place where I sit? I am not strong. Other things in the universe are much stronger than I, such as genes and nervous systems, suns and solar systems. In the face of all that is, my tiny brain only knows what it needs, only knows what it wants, my tiny brain is a selfish, ignorant thing that brims with lust and greed, which swims in false hopes and a constant wash of alcohol.

   Then there is The Power. That benign word which groups of drunks gather together and pray unto. The Power is there, the power is real, I do not contest the reality of it's presence. I am something unto myself, I have been removed from the golden rays of warmth in which flowers grow. I am a dry skinned and chaffing thing which lays upon a tossed and pissed bed. I hear the calls of morning birds and grin sardonically. I have become opposite to the power, like all things old and dying, I have become a yellowed, cracked-tooth phantom which haunts its own flesh. Do not doubt my enmity towards happy children and young skinned lovers. I have grown thin and bitter, I have become a perfect thing, if slugs could be called perfect.

   There is much discussion of will. I have no more will than a drying rotting fish. I have no more will than the flies which buzz around dead things. I am a skin-coated skeleton of need. I am a thin-lipped monster of hate and self-hate. I am not capable of giving over my will to greater powers, for I  have come to find that I have lost possession of such a will. I would be restored to sanity if I could, I would hand over the keys to my wretchedness if I had them.

   I have looked deeply into the true mirrors of the self and I have found a thing which vomits, a thing which throat burns and stomach churns. I have found myself puking on the dusty floor. I have no trouble in admitting my own monstrosity.

   So here I am. With the same hands which fold in prayer, folded around the neck of my master. I could bore any god with my wrongs and my admissions. I regret much, have become a being of regret. Before I can change, a god has to change me. I reside in the absence of miracles, I am a collection of disappointments. When the swimmer went past my outstretched hands, I withdrew my grasp and gave a soul to the universe. I am inept in every way.

   I stand before The Power, with my bottle, with my problems, with my bleary eyes. I say I am sorry, for that is what I am. I will direct the great healer to my hurts and wounds. I will point to the places that I can't bear to have touched. I will come with my most sensitive damage exposed. I will seek a healing balm.

   If He is ready, then I am ready for Him. I have my defects on the table, in my clenched fist, behind me in my red wagon. I have come equipped with sores and volcanic boils. If He is ready than I will step from my dark, dusty corner, where I am Lord of the roaches, of the ashes, of the yellow stains. I will step forward to receive my salvation. I will smile lovingly with my jackal junkie smile, with my criss-crossed and yellow teeth. I will look up adoringly with my red and angry slits for eyes. Oh I am the monster that has been broken, I am the venomous thing that hides in the garden, I am the seven dollars short of rent. I have come again to The Power as I sit with my bottle on the kitchen floor. I hope he will heal me or beat me. To be healed or punished would be better than being alone with my evil.

   My eyes close as my chin drops to my knee. I think of all the things that could have happened, all the chances for happiness which have eluded me. I have harmed many and yet no one cares about my making amends. No one seeks to be forgiven or to forgive. I am supposed to lie now in my hate and burn. Because no one cares. I would make a list and admit my wrongs but no one would listen.

   I have pushed upward to God, in a dizzy state, with dry heaves, during DTs. I have pushed upward to God when my love left me, when I was stranded, when I cared, when I wanted to make things better. I have pushed upwards to God in prayer.

I am the fiend.