I want this writing to appear like acheiropoieta, like Mother Mary on Wonder Bread. Look! Look what came out of me, without my doing! I am a chosen one! You see, I want this to be beautiful and full of awe, but I don’t want to be blamed for it. I cannot be a nutcase who lost his way. Because part of me feels just fine with prostituting my soul like this, performing degrading acts for the sake of others’ pleasure … just so I can bring home the bacon and be a good father. Oof, but what a guilt trip would that be for my dear children? “Here’s some money. Daddy is a whore for you. Daddy is dying for your sins.” And what other nonsense I can conjure.