So the wretched infidel gazes himself blind—

Look at that thing, they say. That pitiful creature with the bolts in its head, they say. Such deadly green skin, they say. Stretched into that hideous face made of plastic, they say. Look at its stitches, look how they sag in their brokenness. Am I always going to be such a sad tale to tell? Will there ever come a time I no longer need that thing of a creator to appear, my ever-absent mother, so that I may finally plant my two feet dead on the ground? Let me say this. This is my tale. I am the myth of the earth-bound purgatory. No maker to be found. I have a mind (their brokenness) to take their words (face made of plastic) like a mirror (no maker to be found) and hurl it (bolts in its head) across the room (brokenness) so foreign (the thing) the likeliness of me—the stitches, the monster, the man-made spear in my side, I say. So foreign (pitiful) the me I saw (hideous) in the (wretch / fiend /ogre /daemon) reflection—