Wet fur brushes the dirty brick on the walls of God’s creativity or claimed creativity. Who made who? If you’re a wet dog, cold in the northeastern snow, do you care much about appeasing the king on high? No, you starve and shake and scrap for food, sometimes tearing at the flesh of a dead addict in the alleyway or a fresh deposit of overstocked ham from the local grocery store. If you are dog you must become god or you will go at this forever. Dog is god when Heaven and Hell are turned upside down. The humble dogbites the flesh of god and becomes the new king on high. No more wet fur, no fur at all. Not even skin because skin must be washed and God doesn’t wash. Why would you pray to Lucifer? Because you don’t want to be a dog anymore. You don’t want to wash anymore. You want to be something so pure that trash cannot even know you.