A hot breeze blew through his open window as he looked at his stack of books by Rousseau, Hegel, Darwin, Nietzsche, Marx and Goethe's "Faust." His "holy book" lie open with words scribbled out and written over. These tomes taught him method, but his heart taught him the means.

His thoughts were like missiles aimed at the sky and of course, dissenters. The missiles were aimed at the Transcendent. Not in truth, but in practice. Pragma and practicality were always the name of the game. Everything else came afterward. The truth itself is what "gets the job done." Would the flames that he desired to start truly bring about that which he craved, that which his soul longed for?

Few things could get him more excited about the day than a piece of well handled rhetoric: honest, dishonest, or honestly dishonest. Like cows chewed the cud, he would find himself remembering the morsels of sophistry that he outlined in the newspapers throughout the day. He would bend, twist, distort, separate and amplify with something he termed "uberkritic." It wasn't about truth either, but its "utility;" Words were his plaything and his audience were to be his adherents. The sound of his own voice echoing off the walls around him, filled with passion and anger sometimes startled him, because they resounded with more weight than his scribblings. "Do as I say, not as I do" was the cream that rose to the top of it all. Merely an aspect of the alchemical manifestation of the spells that he had cast. A thing and its opposite mixed together in the fire were to bring about the magical synthesis. His mind lit with the darkness of night, a light that most wouldn't call a light.

The time was coming where his secrets and spells would be the most effective. Sometimes, however, he needed to buffer them with more...