Joy to the Ode

If self is to dance, commingle, and harmonize with the eternal then the peace that passeth understanding, having put to rest your fucked up Self, must get its groove on. Let La Gioconda laugh. Let Mel Brooks dance on Hitler's grave. Physician! Heal thyself! After all, it is your faith that shall heal you. Revel in it.

But that old mortification of the flesh and spirit; that old foul rag and bone shop of the human heart; that life sapping melancholy; that lancinating terror as Death and Conscience eye us. Ouch.
Would you harm your innocence? Have you stopped?

Can your life's work compare to your life's play? I sincerely hope so.