ometimes a man grows tired of carrying everything the world heaps upon his head. The shoulders sag, the spine bows cruelly, the muscles tremble with weariness. Hope of relief be- gins to die. And the man must decide whether to cast off his h:~ad or endure it until his neck snaps like a brittle twig in au- [ullnl. Such was my situation late in my thirty-third year. Al- though I deserved everything the world had heaped on---and torments after death far worse than any the world could threaten: the torture of my skeleton, the rape and dismember- ment of nay immortal soul--though I deserved all that and more, I fimnd that I could no longer bear the weight. I realized I didn t have to bear it, you see. I came to under- stand that I had a choice. It must have been difficult for Christ himself to withstand the agonies of the cross--the filth, the thirst, the terrible spikes raping the jellied flesh of his hands-- knowing he had a choice. And I am not Christ, not even by half. My name is Andrew Compton. Between 1977 and 1988 I
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