He conceived of trucking a pillar into his backyard, but he wasn't sure what he'd do up there. He thought he might build something, a motorcycle, from bolts and rubber and carbon steel, or he thought he might burn, hot red through the day, cooling orange as the night decayed. He would pray, of course, the hair in his heart still there, the horrifying itch that kept him wringing his hands as a child, but he desired a human payment too, the sex of motorcycle, the pain of skin, the worship of tv. Poor mendicant, he told himself, imagining grand torture, the lust of a crippled messiah.
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