Ian is excited to see his Lord and Saviour James represented in such glorious Light at HHP. He hopes his eyes gaze upon him, and that his allegiance is recognized.
Part of him wishes that the angel statue would come to life, and King James would rise, and two eternal juggernauts would do battle right here in the middle of the Home Park. But for what is this battle raging you ask? I don’t know. What stands at the centre? To that I say; Ian’s soul is at the centre, offered up to the ageless ones. Only to be torn in twain.
It’s like you can’t have one without the other, you know? Like James is equal parts God and the Devil, a cloak of shame covers this man and only supreme light will wash Ian’s body clean. But how could that light possibly reach Ian with the thick clouds of indecency that surround His poor soul? So, he carries his wrong doings on his back, like some kind of tormented hiker.
Lost in the hills of misfortune, looking desperately for that peak, to rescue him from the valley of depraved habitual self-pleasuring but again he finds nothing. Except for sweaty devastated loneliness and a thousand judging eyes staring back from the cover of a stolen Victoria Secrets catalogue. I didn’t take your mail Mr Brent! Stop asking me that. Leave me alone! I don’t know.!