Our Sunday hope is you never slunk back like a dog to its vomit, no turning back, no turning back. But you did, didn’t you, after your miracle aged? You slipped away as the city snored to the garden of tombs you could navigate blindfolded. Maybe you even stripped down naked as you once ruled in your madness just so your skin could lick the stones and grass, this homecoming all your sleeping family and friends clothed and right minded would never understand. Legion went and left quite the hole. Oh, by all means good riddance. But what witnesses failed to grasp was your collateral loss – those who would listen. You went back because you needed the dead. There were times, weren’t there, when you sprinted for the edge where the swine rushed over? But you always stopped short, those stiff voices pleading Turn back. Turn back.