As I have crawled, hands and knees in sewage lines, intoxicated, the stench of filth of thousands brought down on me I have thought to myself, certainly it is not their clean and whitewashed god that I worship. Mine is the god of prostitutes and pimps, addicts and drug dealers, lost souls, victims of early life traumas, who looks to those who must work discreetly in dangerous places. In this way I have found my seat at the round table so to witness the inexplicable backstage wonders that revel and swirl amidst the two midnight lovers, the inconceivable and the unknown.
