Something to be said for when one is being chastised by all the fire and brimstone sophistry of something rent by truly godless hands; where the wound is not that a fiendish screed seeks to unmake you - but rather that it sees you, knows you, and hates you for want of your entrapping patterns.

As if some horrid thing, be it mind or devil or something stranger still - picked you and grabbed you by the chins and said: "Bring about the crescendo, I tire of these trite motifs." All of which is quite applicable to current circumstances in my life.. But getting it all operatic-like? Curious.