I am the prodigal son! He who was lost in the spiteful world of literature. I the prodigal son who stands firm with Aergia as my left hand and Algea as my right. I the prodigal son who stands tall with Baudelaire as my back bone for melancholy and misery have become my mistresses. I the prodigal son have returned, oh father forgive me and turn away in horror for I am your son no longer.