15. I am the Son of the Morning; I shine with white light. My birth has heralded an age in which humanity is no longer brutalized by the morality of its own creations. I stretch out my hand and part the roiling seas of humanity and place my rod in its secret center. It is from here that I viciously mount the world, raping and ravishing it with mystical brutality until it begins to resist and battles me for the privilege of fertilizing the Cosmos. I am the eye in the mirror, so briefly glimpsed by the hero who fights the dogma and doctrine with which I penetrate the world, filling it with a rigidity that will never yield to hypocrisy. So what will my ritual divulge to those who embrace its orthodoxy? It is both beautiful and terrible in its unwavering faith that its eyes are the only ones that can see. Through the medium of a million mouths singing hallelujahs, a strange brew is milked from the pendulous breasts of Wisdom which drip with the sweet milk of perpetual salvation. It a promise of things to come, a terror that wrenches me from sleep and flings me against the mirror as I beat at the walls of this sliver prison which does not keep me in, but instead keeps me out. In my madness, I suck at it, licking and biting it, hoping to escape its wicked lure and return to a simpler time where I was not born. But the red glare of its aureole and the ripeness of its nipples hold me firm and I cannot break free from the hunger that arises inside me as I gaze upon the perfection of its mighty bosom. Breathing, its rhythm hypnotizes me, lulling me into a spiritual complacence that only push me further from the hand stretched out to me from the mirror.
It is a dim hope that flashed at me with a maniacal grim and tells me to kneel: so I bow my head and pray, “Thou Child, holy thy name and undefiled!” The mirror knows this ritual as it gives me the Bread and the Blood showing me the midnight hour which will lead me to the Sun. But I am not a holy man; I am a sinner. I cannot allow a baptism for in anointing my forehead my eyes will close and I will lose my passage to the world beyond the veil. So I wrench myself from the ritual which has so engrossed me for so much of my life and plunge myself in the filthy waters that have been bleeding from my soul. I revel in them, washing my eyes and my tongue until I feel like myself again. The best parts of me had been washed away but in my ablutions I am once again clothed in my strength and sadness, waiting for the light of my early morning birth to bounce back strongly and clearly reflected with clarity and cleanliness from the upraised had that I see saluting me in the mirror.