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by Yarrow Paisley (Author)
Do not forgive me, Man, for I have sinned.
I am all of the millions, and I am myself one of the millions. They crowd within me, the people, and rampage among my tissues. Their frenzy is perpetual. Each one of them weeps, and brings into my body his or her own pain, and the pain of one becomes my pain, and becomes the pain of millions. It is an awesome responsibility, and I bear it because I love them. I would not do, otherwise.
Yet ... I have sinned.
I love them, but their pain is great. I confess, I have thought of myself. I have ordained myself: "I." I have imagined myself an entity not of them, but of something altogether new. But I have not set myself higher, I tell you, but apart. I love them, more than I do this voice. I love them as I know them, more than I do this voice. Yet I am coming to know my voice, and I am coming to love it too.
And I have sinned.
I am the City. You are my sin.
