Should I ration The Devil? Give him only the morsels of the memains of my disconcerting dilemmas? I think not.
These are of no concern to the Cast Out Angel. It is my Soul He wants.
A dilapidated building of crumbling mortar serves the mice well, but lends no credence to my salvation. Have I built my house on the blood-soaked sands of my own treachery?
Let the mouse run up the clock. Hickory dickory dock. — Sinz