I wasn’t an alcoholic, I knew; I didn’t depend upon the poison to make life bearable, but I wanted to be. I wanted to be a tragic figure of misunderstood genius, who could see through the lies of a generation and fight the politicians’ newspeak as it swamped humanity. Society was a wolf, carelessly gnawing away at humanity and intelligence and I wanted to use literature as a burning brand, and I was to be the one to wield it. I would thrust it into the creatures face and watch it squeal in fear, or fight it until its eyes ran like liquid from its skull, matting the burnt fur about its muzzle. I would carry that flame up to the Money-God, like the logical reply to Prometheus, and toss it into the paper money which litters His hall. I would laugh as it burned around him, as the gold ran and the dollars turned to ash, then I would flee to the world before fire; to the world where man was another creature creeping through the trees, where gods are nightmares and royalty is an alien concept.