You told me how easy it is to be a preacher in the sea of people who worships you. While you yourself know by heart the second someone from the past who accidentally crossed your shining path, who happens to have the keys to the lock, to the room that leads them to the closet with thousand other locks, that houses all the skeletons you have left to rot, who start selling sin then with bullets of God. An arsenal of screeching blind sets of beliefs whose pretle pandemic disease. Skeletons only rot faster with soil, honey, or air. It doesn't make you better killing off old despair. The only way for one to weave the past and done is for them to display their sins to everyone. What good can a sinner do? Swim around in its strong doings till it drowns them too? At least I know my thoughts are huge. The dark can to a monstrous that stops my deeds. My heaths have gone to me since then. Because my business is between him and me.