The overseeing angels-of-the-angry-kind strain, but can’t generate sufficient force of eye. So, they weep in their failure.

Chained to a pillar on the temple mount, the floggings amount to little more than bloodlettings. The thin fluid rolls away, replaced by thicker and more hardy concoction.

Even the ravenous robed one has no pull. He’s too far from the children and too familiar to the elders.

So the scene replays. It’s a dream scene that will roll over into real life, becoming more vivid and closer to true — no longer a dim facsimile.

One’s only hope is that one’s less evil twin isn’t evil enough.