V0.2.0 10/23/23

To The Choirmaster: To the tune of Baby, We Can’t Be Friends No More. When we crossed the Last Bridge. A Psalm.

O Josh. When the gods ran screaming

to their hidden realms,

you did not abandon us.

Which was probably by accident,

but better than nothing.

When every curse became the way of nature,

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and the way of nature became every curse,

and gold became sand, and color turned to grime

and clean became dirty, and smooth became splinters,

you taught us not to ‘freak out’.

When your lightning fell behind us

to guard our escape,

it mostly didn't hit us, except for Greg,

and caused the Abandoned ones to twitch and jerk.

Destroying them would have been preferable.

I will praise your deeds because they are adequate.

I mean, we’re still alive.

And in control of our own minds, which is better than most.

Some glory be to you.

In you we place our provisional trust.