A thrall yearns for power and he uses the popular notion of “weakness as god” to propel his ascension to master of the mediocre.

-The Invocation:

Dear god, master of weakness, purveyor of the tattered philosophy for the dying and pained of a threadbare world, allow the supplicant whose diminished figure and mind should not be held against him and in fact prove he is of no quality and as such pleases you, for he is of no consequence and can be no opposition to you. Let this supplicant rise so very high, so high as to reach the altitude of pathetic and in this he will be the corrosive force you desire to see do its work against strength. In this he will be assisted by your minions, the robed, the tally winner and the lopsided esthetic. Dear god, advocate of the meek, let the horde of shame rise up and in the atrophy the degradation and remnant sludge, understand that we as thrall in our preferred state subjugate our honor to thee as offering.

Invocation ends.-

And so the master of the mediocre is loosed and the decent begins. All the happy smiling faces that cocoon themselves in their deficiencies begin to atrophy, and rotting in a stagnant pool of filth return to the soil from whence they came. Dirt rests gently upon dirt, sedimentary layering and a visible stratification is locked away and his last word is heard “it is easy to be a coward”.