The devil is bored. The world has become dull. It was better, he thinks, when men had a horror of sin, then he had a more malignant presence in society. There are so few virgins to tempt, now, when virginity has a filthy reputation; besides, even the virgins these days are not like they used to be, the old Christian martyrs. O, for but a single night in ancient Babylon, to see young men in the temple worshipping the sacred prostitutes, to see mothers offering up their newborns to greedy Baal. It’s not the same. A dull fog settles over the city, the glow of streetlights taints it orange. It’s night, and the people come to drink, to drink to be drunk, and to dance with the devil. Sluts gossip and photograph themselves; men play the satyr half-heartedly. A stale lustfulness settles, a profane joy. The music in the clubs is unholy. The devil listens to a man preaching on the streets the Second Coming of Christ, but nobody else does. A slut babbles about how much fun she is having, but there’s little joy in her eyes. A lad feeling himself bold and lawless litters the road with greasy food, looks around, and smiles like an idiot. The devil shakes his head. Though this nightly ceremony honours him more or less, it does not satisfy; though these people are his, they are not ardent in their devotion. Lukewarm worshipper, spit you out! Make up your mind, choose your side, and devote yourself! Give up your soul! He looks to the sky, the moon is occulted; but it shall not be so for long, and the devil will find a true celebrant to honour this night.