Stories write us, of course. We are no more than the stories in which we figure, most often as heros, in the comedy of humanity staged for the edification of angels, fallen and otherwise. Brands are our stories now and they do not work exclusively for us. They are double agents of a double bottom line. False art, debased religion. Folly who has forgotten even her own name. She goes by Wisdom now, and offers wise counsel as The Most Trusted Advisor to Fools, Rogues and Knaves. She thinks, with a pompous look on her face that she is a cunning little bitch now, and her double talk she considers not only artful but genius. To one who knows her as she once was, it is not only embarrassing and shameful, but sad. It is not that she, the teller of tales, has become a darker force, for power, seduction, and wealth; we all do our best in Wealth Bondage to set a scene, play our part with a flounce and a smile, and turn a buck, but that her new Act is clumsy, blind, and crude. Her teeth are gone. Her breath reeks of rottenness. Perfume cannot mask the stench of mortality. She had finesse once, and was self-aware, when as Folly she Praised herself. Now, Good God! They say art is a mirror in which we see the deformities in all faces but our own. On me, the asses's ear look good, as Midas said to his Barber. But he had the golden touch; what more could anyone want?