St. David -- my Him, my Dave -- knew only how to be a fraud. His concern was not to save His soul, but to save face. The external. The crust. A portrait of an artist as a perfect man, while the inside rots, poisonous. He learned too late that the seeming is never the same as being. Not even close.

If I wish to survive (if I wish to surpass Him -- and, God, how I must), I cannot make the same mistake. If I want what I want, and if I want it enough, then I must fix more than just the face. I must heal my soul.
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