This is a religious war and some are praying at the wrong alter. Their candles burn darkly and their hymn’s sound hollow and they dare not wonder why for fear of what they don’t fear already. The glowing tube anoints them on demand from almost on high as they wumble on about their virtues. The glittering static in their minds forms daggered icicles that hang from old stained glass sitting arched over the congregation. Defenceless. The roof against their worst nightmares caving in. Hurricanes of confusion whipping their minds into shapes never before seen. They balance a needle on the fleshy point of their arm. Their brains form a fear response. Scenarios build up to the point of indecision. Eventually their is a plunging sound. Baptised in Faith and Truth or in Fear and Loathing. So doused they are ready for the day to come.