Behold, I stand at the door, and knock Big America, Big America, let me come in. No. We are not blind. You might be a wolf in the only clothes on your back sent to swallow us whole. Please. I no longer have a place to lay my heart. My smile is broken and devils fill my dreams. No. We may be pigs but we are not fools. We know your wretchedness could be a subtle ruse. Please. I have long heard of the brave flame shining in the night sky, held by a mother’s stately arm. No. As the Innkeeper once said: There is no room. Our great plans simply do not include you.