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Flayed icons are painted with tar by the Great Master Painter from the far-away Cesspool. Art works in mysterious ways.

What else can one do but rejoice into the whirlwind of distraction torn by distraction? The Divine is blasted, so rejoice; "Who is this King of Glory? The Lord of hosts, He is the King of Glory." A beatified groan rolls over distorted war-machines covered with cubism. "But life," said Langland, "only burst out laughing and meant to have his clothes slashed in the new style." Gray the transubstantiation. Gray the Flesh and Blood. Gray the Pantokrator. Played backwards and forwards, a worn-out holocaust falls apart on the cycles of emptiness. And the angel said, "The Words of the Preacher, Son of David, King in Jerusalem... Gee whizz... Mother... not that again. We have new mediums, new materials, and new programs." Said Walter Winchell to the angel, "Bye, Sweety. Dont't forget to pack your halo!" "So, Halo everybody! Halo. Halo Shampoo! Halo!" Said Samuel Beckett's Vladimir (exploding), "It's a scandal!" Merry Twistmas.

The day of the artist is very long, but the zeros must be painted at average of one-hundred per minute. Zeros within zeros for zeros by zeros. That was a way of painting it. Not very dynamic. A feeble push and pull over the grey surface. The icon is sinking into a big vat of grey paint, and there is nothing to do but watch it sink like the watchman watches the night. 

Such was the burden of nowhere. 
Worthless are my prayers and sighing,
Yet, good Lord, in grace complying,
Rescue me from Fires undying.