Take these ecstasies of yours, these sad, psychotic revelations,
Far from me. I've slain your God. I did it as a child with no greater
Weapon than my mind. Look up at the sky. You'll see a universe
Which has no end. That grumpy bastard in your book, who's so
Intent on telling people what they should, and shouldn't, do,
Is far too small, too feebleminded, to be in control of it. He said
Don't kill, but people do. He cursed all but one type of lovers. It
Was claimed he offered mercy, but the ones who followed Him
Were more concerned with punishment. I'm glad He's dead.
I'm better off because He is, and I'd prefer that you, so full
Of guilt and terror, take yourself and your sick visions
Somewhere far from me.