I woke up this morning, and I thought I was in Bethlehem, last night I had a binge in Beijing, I remember breaking my side-mirror, in what seemed to be a steeple-chase, on the derelict boulevards of France, the finish line in Vatican, then made a toast with the dead popes, as the holy grail circulated, we sipped the blood of Jesus, in the process of my anointing, to be the Messiah of Poetry, and give sermons in Shakespearean sonnet, establish ministries, and surpass prevalent religions, till my ordeal they shall crucify me, on a fiery cross.