The world was already broken. The anima mundi split; when another false prophet with a gilded pompadour hit. He riled the ire, started a fire, fueled it with hate, which once started did not abate. This empire is built on lies. Attack and destroy the natural world so that we may thrive, while everything around us dies. A halo of fear embedded in his hair. He kisses Chihuahuas and dresses them in tiny sweaters before he kicks them over the wall. Words shoot like bullets from his rifled lips. “I don’t like losers.” His signature shrug, a smug smile, all devised to beguile. Who would be so STUPID to take on the sins of the world? We laugh at his antics, both attracted and repelled. The road to hell is long and winding. They say it’s lined with good intentions and invasive plants. With the demagogue’s rise is our nation’s demise. Our apathetic, pampered, oil-sucking shadows appreciate too little and hate too much. The Opus Magnus is unwritten. The anima mundi is sick. In the treeless orchard, the executioner of trees speaks to me. He says that all of his dreams are nightmares. We are sick together.