There is an empty piece of canvas, somewhere. It is white and pristine. And then there will be paint splatters on the canvas. Nothing ever stays white and pristine. The canvas is marred. (now black now red now blood. the canvas is now a field of blood.) It will be an irreversible stroke. Red mingles with white and the despair is utterly filling.

But I will be there for you. I will splatter myself across your mistake. I will wither and wilt and die for you. Red will mix with blue and blood will become fame. I do it because that is my purpose; am I here to do any more than wither and wilt and die?

I am the savior. I am the Deus Ex Machina.