Cryptic triptych, your windows reveal a soul's image in its fight with light and death. There you have it: an oversimplified sentence case against evil and tradition and spare tires. Have faith! Don't prepare. It's a way down the road that you must descend should you wish to ascend to that graphical asymptote, so often halo'd by gold. Fry your fingers on hot oil griddles as you re-arrange yucca and the remains of the day: find your favorite passage and never walk it again, that's called being a good person. Work your ethic into a frenzy and turn that frenzy into a billboard for your virtuous down-going, a tick and a locust and a cockroach, the quorum for voting you in.