SUNDAY SERMON FROM DILLINGER FLAKEWAITER

I wish to be dead. It is a simple request that I have uttered to the creator, my higher power if you like. More a question of boredom I suppose, wondering about the next great adventure. If there is heaven or hell as one may believe then perhaps I should stave off my death with all imaginable power to summon. If however, as I believe, or hope at least, ah precious hope denies the reality of blackness perhaps, perchance to sleep, to abide in black peace with nothing, just nothing, that after this passage here there might indeed be a great new adventure: Less problematic in its structure, perhaps just nothing? You see, I go back to nothing, sweet nothing. I watched a child die; had I killed it or was I simply an instrument in that problematic station that I found myself. I watched a man die, held his guts in my hands, had it melt through my fingers, perhaps also an instrument in some devine plan that to this day I am unaware of?

I wish to be dead yet fear still sits with me, side by side before the warm fire of my destiny which as yet is fullfilled, or not? You do see the problem in the question, do you not, sweet children?

I have no desire to sermonize nor harmonize, for I have done both in exceeding well charm. I have still a small desire to sit by that warm fire of my destiny which as yet is fullfilled or not, to hold you, the entire ugly and beautiful creation of my higher power to me, close, protect. To ride with me the sweet trail of love, defying the pitched road of hatred. For this I have an honest wish, and I think once we can surpass the effluence of Britany's naked crotch we might indeed be able to succour one another and guide and hold us all together in that land of nod that I so hope extends itself more with love in the hoped-for next adventure. Yes, that is what we hope for.

Oh, the gall of the man that speaks for others. It is presumptious of me, is it not? Yet I hard think on the mounds of the apocolypse that we are indeed all the same, the very same. We are children of a higher power that plays with us as He will, as He is yet a child. I wonder the eons it takes for a God to grow, or are such higher powers born aged and wise? For it seems upon examining life and history that they may not be born aged and wise but that they learn in their time, which is eons and not understood by us, his lower whisps of light breath that He, the child, breathes upon us on the occasion of His pity.

Not quite a sunday sermon I guess; rather simple self-chiding, examination of an elderly man who has done much, has few regrets. The ones that I do I regret so deeply that death is often a viable alternative, yet... that excited fear of the unknown beckons as surely as the too-suckled child still lusts for its mother's tit.

I wish you all, my children, a fine and glorious Sunday and that with each second you grow to wish for the beauty of eternal, peaceful, deep deep black sleep.

Love, Pastor Dillinger of the Eternal Quest and Pietational Quickened Church of the Holy Sepulchre of Mamman