My name is interdict. I bask in the radiance of custom, and I cloth myself in the cloak of tradition. I am a headache short of a full-blown migraine. I am a sword’s sheath, although sometimes others might look at me and see only a prophylactic. I call myself inoculation, but they call me spermicidal. Some rise to my defense; the good ones, those who understand piety, and perhaps even, those who have been led to identification with despair. It is I that comes across the dangerous gnosis, and it is I who protects the meandering masses from its perils. I take upon myself the cross of decadence and lust. I am the last bastion of an endangered cleanliness, one worthy only of the very best detergent advertisements. I am unchanging and unyielding. Like the last remaining hexagram of an I-King destroyed, I am a token of that which has yielded. Yielded, and yielded once again – a...