He walked the famed strip of Vegas engulfed, drowning, feeling imprisoned by its flashing, blinking, glittering facades, temples to the Gods who falsely promise of instant wealth, communions and baptisms of cash held round black jack and poker tables or round the wheel of roulette or shooting in the pits crap. Wafers of the saviors flesh replaced by plastic chips and his blood, the wine, devilishly transmuted to cheap bourbon, cheaper vodka and rancid, cigarette smoke infused beer, to further blind the already desperate and morally bankrupt. Surrounded by fake teeth smiling, phony breasts bouncing, screaming out from vomit and urine stained sidewalks, lies of fulfillment packaged as lust, greed and gluttony, he thought, "What a perfect Mecca, a fitting Vatican for capitalism's hollow dreams and promises, The worship of matter and flesh, before LOVE and spirit". With that thought, a wave of deepest depression washed over him, but then came that familiar soothing silent voice that was always there to guide him through these moments of sorrowful doubt, "For one to truly remember and become once more all that LOVE is, one must stop worshiping at the altars of all that one is not."