Tuesday

The Artist Prays

Soon after I arrived in the Hells, I saw an Artist.

This wretched little fuck - hateful little fuck - squatting like a toad, he had eyes the size of trashcan lids and little desiccated testicles.

Poor chap.

He'd been condemned to gaze across a smoky vale toward the hillside haunt of my hero, Sisyphus, and was required to describe, via any medium he chose, each of Sisyphus's attempts to push his stone to the top of the hill. Each description of the uphill battle was to be unique and original and new and unlike any of the previous ones - fresh.

Every time Sisyphus's rock finally rolled back downhill - with Sisyphus sobbing after - the Artist would approach his workbench, loosening his shoulders like a batter, and before beginning his task, would pray the following:

God of Apollo, God of the Muses, God of terrible Typhon,
God of Prometheus and God of Epimetheus,
God of Fools, God of Bards,
God of horsehair, grass, and planets
God of silver, oil, and ichor
God of rock and clay,
God of hands
God of all flesh, and all voices of flesh,

May my work today disclose You further to the world.

As I passed, the Artist threw himself at my feet, begging forgiveness for a life of ingratitude and self-centeredness. He made me puke.

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