What Looked Like Morning Was The Beginning

Every Man That Ever Lived Craved Perfect Happiness, The Detective Poignantly Reflected. But How Can We Have It When We Know We’re Going To Die? Each Joy Was Clouded By The Knowledge It Would End. And So Nature Had Implanted In Us A Desire For Something Unattainable? No. It Couldn’t Be. It Makes No Sense. Every Other Striving Implanted By Nature Had A Corresponding Object That Wasn’t A Phantom. Why This Exception? The Detective Reasoned. It Was Nature Making Hunger When There Wasn’t Any Food. We Continue. We Go On. Thus Death Proved Life.

But A Myth, To Speak Plainly, To Me Is Like A Menu In A Fancy French Restaurant: Glamorous, Complicated Camouflage For A Fact You Wouldn't Otherwise Swallow, Like Maybe Lima Beans.

Like The Brief Doomed Flare Of Exploding Suns That Registers Dimly On Blind Men's Eyes, The Beginning Of The Horror Passed Almost Unnoticed; In The Shriek Of What Followed, In Fact, Was Forgotten And Perhaps Not Connected To The Horror At All.

Earth Is A Homicide Victim. We Lose Our Children. There Are Wars. Disease. And God Comes Strolling By Like A Cosmic Billie Burke.

Yet I Think The Demon's Target Is Not The Possessed; It Is Us . . . The Observers . . . Every Person In This House. And I Think---i Think The Point Is To Make Us Despair; To Reject Our Own Humanity, Damien: To See Ourselves As Ultimately Bestial; As Ultimately Vile And Putrescent; Without Dignity; Ugly; Unworthy.