By opening these decadent Himalayas,
you've marked me out new trails in
the hills. These are all too high, yet
I must carry this load. There's a new
saint in this roadside chapel, but I
can't yet remember his name.
Saint Alphonse of the Spitfire,
that's what I'll call him - praying
incessantly too. For greed, and for
avarice both. Let's see what he brings
of the seven deadly sins.
Why do you think this all is easy? I work
and I slave over five thousand words
to but whittle it down by day's end to
two hundred. And even then it takes
more, and it all must make sense.
Too much work, Saint Alphonse.
If you're bringing things out,
I'll take some sloth.