Worship can be wholesome. Meditative, even. It can be a slow, longing, intimate act of dedication, or of thoughtful attentiveness. Or it can be sick and desperate and barely conscious, the equivalent of passionate prostration. The word "unworthiness" comes to mind—unworthiness in the sense of near-religious insufficiency. Worship borne of awe and need and fear. The sort that leads people to speak in tongues, or burst out crying, or flagellate themselves. This sort of worship is not offered in response to a request, or even to a command. If you demand worship, you are not worthy of this sort. Fevered worship is provoked. It's brought forth by a body trembling and weak, a mind swimming and overwhelmed, emotions overflowing. It's as inevitable as a coughing fit or nausea. When need becomes a fever, worship is the only way to become pure. Eyes blinded by the perfection of what they've seen. Mind struck blank by the immenseness of what it's grappling. Fingers that roam, ceaselessly, like pilgrims searchin
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