(Wowie, I actually wrote something short this round! Challenge words are surrounded with asterisks. I'm pretty proud of this myself, but ultimately, in such a dog-eat-dog competition as this, the masses dictate the quality.)
If you were a dreamer, or if you’d been called a prodigy, the chances of him accrediting you with any pittance of sanction were slimmer than the ties he wore to work. You were a divinity in which he did not believe, with wings made of paper and feet made of lead. You overlooked your human flaws. There was no mercy from Matthew Robert Lewis; if you dared to have expected any, you sold your soul to his attentive eyes and let yourself be eaten by his vulture of a shadow. Your sanctimonious life became an endurance of his belittling squint, which robbed you of your dignity and every ounce of self-esteem. His caustic words stripped you bare to the bone. To Matthew, it was foolish to be anything but naked. A man was strongest in his fundamental state. The stoic – a banker, a skeptic, and a certified asshole – was a self-made man with impious creeds, notorious for his incredulity and oppressive atheism and stone-cold heart. The righteous few within his inner circle – which was really more of a hierarchy (of which he was a dictator) – shared his irreverence for the deifying world. They would pick you limb from limb and call you excretive things. “Silly child,” they would laugh, “there is no such thing as a man-made god!” Gods were *divas* born from glistening gold, with inconceivable talents granted by the heavens; you, a cretin, were spoon-fed lies and implanted with your own benevolence. Beware the banker and his sacrilegious friends lest your false hopes be snuffed and your dreams crushed. Repel the snapping jaws of dehumanizing cynicism. The self-proclaimed theologians know nothing of the holy.
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