i'll puke-out the lukewarm

I dreamed of a saint.

A real dream. I was passing by her casket;

it was opened. I prayed,

and when I touched her clothes which were on her,

she turned alive

and stood up. I was dying inside my dream,

unexpected,

fear,

reverence,

grateful to see miracle,

worshipping;

it was true!

So true!

So unexpected! She was rotten and empty inside,

but her face was like a young woman’s,

radiant. What is holly is not the shell but the image of her radiant face She stood up

and was disoriented,

and people were stunned

and couldn’t believe their eyes. Some were thinking,

“Now what?

What do we do with a resuscitated saint?

Will we have to change anything?

We don’t want to change anything.” That’s why some, stunningly,

passed by the resuscitated saint

like it was nothing,

just looking forward,

passing by,

ignoring this singularity. And her name was something with Huguenotte or Ursula or something;

she was French

and stunningly beautiful. People like to lie to themselves,

tricking their conscience

into a semi-somnolence

where they find some peace. That’s why they fight little lies

but accept the biggest ones;

that’s why they go to church

instead of truly trying to do good. Little lies,

little minds,

little hearts,

little souls:

big failures,

wasted great lives,

wasted great times. That’s how evil triumphs in the world—

through the little truths

which are actually little lies—

while hardly anybody fights

against the big lies,

the big injustices,

for the greatest good. Most people will just choose

a dark, miserable corner

to live their life,

like cockroaches do,

like worms do. This is not a human way

to live a life. That’s why the Lord of the worlds said,

“I will spit the lukewarm out of my mouth.”