Hard times, brother, can you spare a dime? Men stand in the streets seeking jobs, women try to feed children who don’t understand, no jobs, nowhere, My house burned down, ain’t got nowhere to go, wars come, men breathe hateful fumes and try to straddle the earth, try to unleash God’s own sun, but only release the devil and the suns of hell, but the sons of the sons of oppression sing, My house burned down, and I can’t live there no more, sing the songs of sorrow sung by their fathers, sung by their mothers, long out of the land of milk and honey. But the rain won’t come down? Where? Where is the rain?

O what will they see?

Women and children big-eyed and big-bellied, no food, no where, over there, over here, Lord, Lord, Lord, work, toil, endless, uphill, women who slave in the homes of the ill-willed, men slaves of the factories, slaves of the fields, and men slaves of themselves, It’s gonna rain, it’s gonna rain, they all are put out, put out like rats, no food to eat, put out like hateful dogs, no clothes to wear, put out like mean cats, put out from their jobs, their hope. How? How will they feed their children? How? How will they see tomorrow? God showed Noah the rainbow sign, and the children of the children of oppression, my Lord, cut themselves off and crucify themselves? Who will be the savior? Where is the rain? Won’t be water, but fire next time. The people try to sing, but find they have no voice. Did the gods turn their heads in shame?

Horace saw clearly through a glass darkly and understood where he fit. Understood what was asked of him.

Horace shook his head. No. He turned away. No. He turned his heart away. No.

This had been Horace’s redemption, and Horace said no.

He turned to leave, shaking and on the verge of tears, not looking for the harlequin. Dispirited, dejected, he did not care to see it.

If it were only so simple, a voice cried.

I’ll do as I please, Horace said as he turned to see himself again, but this time as naked as his image.

His reflection stood there, his hand extended. I’m your way, he said.

Give me a break.

I’m serious. And you know it. I’m what you need.

You? Me, you mean.

Exactly.

Bullshit.

You can follow the demon if you want. It’s your choice.

Horace looked at his hand. His hand. Never had he felt such self-loathing, and by and by, his depression became anger as he glared at the spirit.

Stop whining, Horace, it said. Stand firm and be—

Shut up! Don’t lecture me! I can’t—

You mean you won’t—

It’s not possible!

That’s not what you mean, son. You mean—

Leave me alone, God damn it!