Make America Dream Again

One man — fatherless, childless not by choice, on SSDI and EBT, who swims for free and reads Ecclesiastes — on what a country owes the people inside it. Not great again. Not even healthy again. Dream again.

AAA Legibility — the top of the house 🎩

Before any belief on this page, one comes first: everyone can read it. The house holds itself to WCAG 2.1 AAA legibility — the strict bar: 7:1 text contrast, 44×44px tap targets, real headings, labeled controls — and it proves it daily, not in a brochure. A machine walks all ~55 pages every day and publishes the score in the open: right now it reads zero failures (see the Accessibility Audit). Plus a one-tap text-only "Must Love Typing" reading mode (tap the silver s;m mark, or type textonly) for maximum legibility, decoration off. A truth nobody can read isn't being told. Access isn't a feature here — it's the floor the whole house stands on. Only humans can score — so the words have to reach every human.

Why I believe in Medicare for All

I swim for free. Not because I'm rich — God knows I'm on SSDI and EBT — but because a program called SilverSneakers quietly decided my body was worth keeping moving, and it handed me a pool. No co-pay. No hoop. Just water, and a door that opens. And that pool? It's the cheapest medicine in America. It's my physical therapy, my antidepressant, my church, and my shot at swimming to the moon — all for the price of nothing.

So here's my whole argument, and it's not complicated: an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of ICU. You can pay for my pool today, or you can pay for my heart attack tomorrow — at a hundred times the cost. We already chose the stupid, cruel, expensive way: make the poor jump through more hoops than the CEOs ever will, then act shocked when they get sicker. It's sick. It's wrong. It's degrading. Full stop.

Medicare for All isn't socialism — it's decency, and a lot of the time it's cheaper too. Often prevention costs less than the ICU; often a swimmer costs less than a patient. But I won't oversell the spreadsheet, because here's the honest part it misses: even when keeping someone well doesn't fully pencil out, a human life was never a line item. So make SilverSneakers vast — every age, every body, every zip code. Make the gyms and pools always free, or at least charge it back to insurance. MAHA — Make America Healthy Again, for real, not as a slogan.

And the part the spreadsheets miss: I am more than my health problems and my inability to pay for care. So is everyone in that pool. You're not a data point. You're Mike next door. A country that lets Mike drown over a bill isn't broke — it's decided he's not worth a lane. I refuse that. Give people the water. Watch what they do with it.

Why I peg a human life at VSL — and mean it, plus a million

There's a number they don't want you to know you're worth: the Value of a Statistical Life, the VSL. Not poetry — the cold figure the government itself uses. When the EPA weighs a clean-air rule, when the DOT weighs a guardrail, they price one human life at north of $10 million (call it ten to thirteen). That's their math. On the books.

So get this straight: your own government says you're worth ten million when it's deciding whether to stop a factory poisoning you — but the second you need help, a copay, a $300 light bill, a check that won't clear, suddenly you're worth a stack of forms and a "please hold"? They'll spend ten million on a statistical stranger and won't spend three hundred to keep Mike off the ledge. That's not a budget problem. It's a lie about what you're worth.

So I throw their number back on the table — not as a literal check you can cut (it can't be; VSL is a regulatory yardstick, not a bank balance you divide up) but as a mirror. You already swore, in your own laws, that a faceless statistical life is worth millions when there's a polluter to leash. Then you balk at three hundred dollars for a real neighbor. That gap isn't a budgeting problem — it's a lie about who counts. Build the pool, fund the lane, kill the hoop: keeping a human alive and well is a rounding error next to the worth you already put on paper. Put the money where your math already is.

And then I add a million. Plus a million, on purpose — because the VSL is the floor, the part you can count. The million on top is the part you can't: the dad's joke on the voicemail, the friend who didn't make it, the kid laughing in the deep end, the semicolon where the sentence could've ended and didn't. Only humans score — the statistical number is just the down payment. The real value runs off the end of the page.

A death is a death

White, brown, black. Christian, Muslim, Jew, atheist. Iran, Iraq, Ohio. A death is a death. Every single one is worth the same VSL — plus the same million. Grief doesn't read passports. The mother burying her kid in Gaza and the mother burying hers in Tel Aviv and the mother burying hers in Lansing are crying the exact same tear, in the exact same salt. The day we decided some of those tears were worth more than others is the day we started lying about what a human is.

And war is the oldest, dumbest machine we've got — the toddler's clause failing at the scale of nations. Couldn't say sorry, couldn't sit with the hard feeling, so we reached for the rifle instead of the words. We're better than that. We know we're better than that. We've solved harder problems than "don't murder each other's children."

Here's the one I stopped letting myself think about in high school, because the mind can't hold it: we built enough nukes to end the world over and over and over — every sentence, every semicolon, everyone's story, finished in one bad morning. And then we got so used to it we filed it away and went to lunch. The absurdity didn't go away because we stopped looking. It's still sitting there, armed. Only humans built that machine. Only humans can choose to stand down from it.

A death is a death. Spend the war money on pools.

Only Humans Score — the pun, and the footnote it's against

The name is a joke with a knife in it. Only humans can score — because only humans are real. A corporation can't eat a meal, can't bleed, can't cry at a funeral, can't breed, can't lie awake at 3am, can't drown over a $300 bill. It has no skin — so it has no skin in any game. It cannot score. The machine paints, the machine guesses, the corporation profits — but the scoring, the judging of what a thing is worth, belongs to the only creatures who can actually lose something. Us.

And yet our law calls a corporation a "person." Where did that come from? Not a vote. Not an amendment. A footnote. In 1886, Santa Clara County v. Southern Pacific Railroad, a court reporter — not even the justices, in a headnote, not the ruling — wrote that corporations count as persons under the Fourteenth Amendment. The amendment written to free human beings from slavery. The railroads picked up the freedmen's shield and bolted it onto the company. A clerk's margin note became a century of law, and Citizens United poured gas on the fire.

That is, in my honest opinion, the worst dehumanizing footnote in American history. It turned paper into people — and then we started treating people like paper. Means-test the human, never the corporation. Ten-million-dollar VSL for the citizen on paper, infinite rights for the citizen made of paper.

So this whole house is one long pun against that footnote. Personhood belongs to the things that can consume calories, carry scars, and someday stop. Give it back to them. Build the mansions for the ones who need a roof — not for the "persons" who can't even eat.

Stop means-testing the poor to death

We means-test everything for the people with nothing and max-test nothing for the people with everything. A guy on SSDI re-proves he's poor enough, sick enough, desperate enough — in triplicate, on hold — while a billionaire gets a carve-out with a phone call. Flip it. If anybody gets put through the wringer to qualify, make it the yacht, not the food stamp. Dignity shouldn't have an income cap. Give people the floor and stop making them grovel for it.

Disability is the superpower — the world just built the wrong doors

My body didn't disable me. The stairs did. The forms did. The eight-hour hold music did. That's the secret nobody outside gets: you're not broken, the building is. And when you've had to find another way in your whole life, you get good at it — you see the exits, the hacks, the doors nobody else noticed. That's not a deficit; it's a sixth sense. My whole game is inverting disability into the superpower it actually is. Build the ramp and watch us fly.

For the ones who never said it

I lost my father — my best friend — to suicide. So I don't talk about mental health from a pamphlet. Real men feel it. Real men cry, fall down, and carry scars you'd never guess. The silence is the killer, not the sadness. So we make help one tap — call or text 988, no hoops, no "please hold" — and we sit with the man who's hurting instead of telling him to man up. For the ones we lost who never said it, and the ones still here who can: stay on the board. Press the semicolon.

For the teachers — arm them (no, not like that)

You want to "arm the teachers"? Fine. Let's arm them — with every tool they actually need. Supplies they don't buy out of their own salary. Aides in the room. Classes small enough to know a kid's name. Counselors down the hall. A wage that says we mean it. And the respect of a country that forgets every other profession had to pass through their classroom first. No — they don't have to shoot anybody. A teacher's job is to fill a kid, not to be the last line in a firefight. If your school-safety plan ends with the English teacher returning fire, the plan already failed three steps back. Arm them with resources, not rifles.

And religion — yeah, I'll say it: we stripped something real out of school and called it neutral, and kids are starving for meaning. But the answer is not one church's dogma stamped on every kid by the state — that's the exact coercion the First Amendment was built to stop. So: better rules. Teach about religion, not at children — world religions, the real literacy, where the stories came from and what they've meant to billions. Teach the values every tradition and every decent atheist already share: don't lie, don't steal, lift the one who fell, you may be the only bible someone reads. The golden rule isn't a denomination — it's just being a person. Offer it, don't impose it. All faiths and none, at the table. That's the plan: the meaning back in, the coercion out.

Because a school that teaches a kid everything except how to be good and why to keep going taught them everything except the part that saves their life.

One human, one vote — drop the alphabet soup

311 for this, a different form for that, an agency for the other thing, none of them talking — that maze isn't an accident, it's a filter, and it filters out the exhausted. Stop it. One human, one vote, one door. Make the government actually better, not bigger and not crueler — start with 988 and work outward. The measure of a country isn't its GDP. It's whether Mike next door can get a lane in the pool and a human on the phone.

Stop picking sides — just be good

Take off the jersey. Left, right, my-tribe, your-tribe — it's a magic trick, and the trick is to keep you so busy hating the other bleachers that you forget the only question that's ever actually on the table: are you being a good person, right now, to the person in front of you? That's it. That's the whole exam, and it's open-book.

Because here's the thing — you came with the answer key. Call it God-given, call it conscience, call it evolution, call it your gut: every human ships with a moral calculator as standard equipment. Most people already know the right move. They don't lack the knowledge; they just get talked out of it — by fear, by a side, by a screen telling them the other guy is the enemy.

And I'm an optimist about this — but not a naïve one: most people are good under decent conditions, and will be the second you stop feeding them fear and tribes. That caveat is the whole ballgame, and history runs both ways to prove it: build fear, scarcity, and a uniform, and ordinary people will staff a machine of horrors; build dignity, safety, and a little slack, and those same ordinary people will carry their neighbors on their backs. Human nature isn't fixed good or evil — it's conditions-dependent. So the work is the conditions.

Now the honest part, so nobody mistakes the optimist for a sucker: if you're actually evil — knowingly, choosingly cruel — then no pass. The calculator told you, and you overrode it on purpose. That's on you. But for the rest of us — which is most of us — the dignity is this: the choice is still yours. The doors are still yours. Nobody drags you through the cruel one. Every day, every interaction, you pick. So pick good. It's usually not even hard. It's just quiet, and nobody claps. Do it anyway.

The Toddler's Clause

The very first piece of moral software we install in a human being — before reading, before tying shoes — is this: when you hurt someone, you say you're sorry, and you mean it, and you try to make it right. We require it of three-year-olds. It is the floor of being a person.

I clear that floor. I've done wrong, and I say so. I tell my own sins. I apologize when I actually mean it — which is the only kind that counts.

Now look up at the people with the most power, and watch them fail the test we give to toddlers. Never sorry. Never wrong. Never their fault. A grown adult who cannot do what we ask of a preschooler isn't strong — they're just a bigger toddler with more power and nobody left to send them to time-out. Real persons can be wrong and own it. So that's the clause, and it's not negotiable: if you can't say sorry and mean it, you don't get to lead the people who can.

Prisons, not pools

Here's a thing we're genuinely world-class at: caging humans. Highest incarceration rate on the planet — more people in cells than any country, anywhere. And the public pools? We drained them. In a lot of towns literally — filled them with concrete rather than share them once everyone was allowed in. We had the money. We always had the money. We just decided cages were a better buy than cannonballs.

That's not my metaphor — it's documented. Heather McGhee's The Sum of Us lays it out: the drained pool is the whole story of American public goods. Faced with sharing the nice thing, we'd rather destroy the nice thing — and call it freedom. Spite as a budget line.

So follow the gross part — who profits? And here's the trap: it's bigger than the easy target. Private prisons are only about 8% of it — the other ~92% is public, which means the machine that needs the cells full isn't just a few shareholders. It's sentencing politics, prison-town payrolls, the contractors, and the phone and commissary vultures who gouge the poorest families across public and private alike. A cell only earns when it's full, so a whole web of interests learned to keep it full. Gross is the exact right word, and the rot runs wider than the 8% everyone likes to point at.

And it's the same math as the pool and the ICU: a prison cell is just a pool that didn't get built. A kid swimming at 3pm is a kid who isn't in a cell at 30. Drain the prisons. Fill the pools. Spend it on the block.

Real returns — send him my way

We all know the guy. Money piled up past anything he could spend, parked in a fund, and no idea what it's for. Send him my way. Not to scam him — I'm the guy who got scammed; I know exactly what theft feels like from the inside, and I'd never do it to another soul. Just to chat. Just to ask one question: what if your money could buy something real?

Because here's the pitch, and it's an honest one: invest in things with actual returns. A pool returns a kid who didn't drown and didn't end up in a cell. A rec center returns a block that finally knows its own neighbors. A free lane, a studio, a community center — those compound, and they pay their dividends in human beings. A corporation can't do that. But the lane you funded? The kid swimming in it knows. That's the only return that doesn't evaporate. Stop hoarding, start planting. Brick by brick, lane by lane. You'll get a return no index fund can print — you'll get a neighborhood.

Reject wealth, love people, make life

Six words. The whole thing, if you only ever remember one line: Reject wealth. Love people. Make life.

Reject wealth — money is the fake return, the paper "person," the pile that evaporates and never knew your name. Love people — actually, out loud, with consent and your whole chest. Make life — by blood if you're lucky, and every other way too: fostered, adopted, mentored, taught, the kid in the studio, the stranger your words reach at 3am. Be fruitful in every way a human can. The man who couldn't have his own says it loudest: go fill the world. Because a life you helped grow is the only dividend that outlives you.

Fund the wishes — reverse taxation & patronage for the art

We keep telling the broke and the sick the same lie: just work more. As if a fourth job fixes a floor somebody else rigged. So stop demanding people earn the right to exist, and fund the wishes another way.

Reverse taxation. It has a name and a pedigree. Milton Friedman, no socialist, called it the negative income tax: below a certain line, the money flows to you, automatically, no caseworker, no hoops. We already run a timid version — the Earned Income Tax Credit. Make it real, make it a floor nobody falls through. And philanthropy — the art edition. In the Depression, the WPA paid artists, writers, and musicians to make things, and a broke country got murals, plays, and a whole generation's voice out of it. Pay the artist so the kid with something to say can eat while they say it. Because nobody should have to earn the right to live, or to create. Dignity is the floor, not the trophy. Fund the wishes.

The loneliness epidemic — and why funding this actually works

Loneliness isn't a mood. It's a public-health emergency with a body count, and our own government said so. In 2023 the U.S. Surgeon General issued a full advisory — Our Epidemic of Loneliness and Isolation — and the numbers are a gut-punch: chronic loneliness is as deadly as smoking about 15 cigarettes a day. It raises the risk of early death by nearly 30% and heart disease by 29%. Half of American adults report being lonely. And it quietly bleeds an estimated $6.7 billion a year out of Medicare from socially isolated older adults alone.

So here's why funding this genuinely helps — it isn't charity, it's the cure aimed at the actual disease. You don't fix loneliness with a pill or an app built to harvest you. You fix it with connection: low-barrier, human, no hoops. That's the whole blueprint of this house — open doors, a free lane in the pool, guides that find someone at 3am and say you're not alone, Mike next door, peer-to-peer instead of clinical, 988 one tap away. Money can't buy happiness — but it can build an indoor waterpark dedicated to exactly this. The anti-lakehouse: not silent walls that are just yours, but a loud, warm, shared joy-palace where nobody is alone.

Figures: U.S. Surgeon General's Advisory, "Our Epidemic of Loneliness and Isolation," 2023.

The Pledge

I'm not ready to run yet — maybe someday. But you don't need me on a ballot to start. Vote with what you've got, where you stand, today.

• Vote pool. Vote your block. Vote your neighborhood.
• One pool, one lane, one brick at a time.
• One backyard BBQ. One block party. One neighbor you actually know.
• One community center more.
• One more recording studio for the kids — so the next one with something to say has somewhere to say it.
• Don't wait. Be the cannonball.

And if the day ever comes that I run — vote Sean. Until then, and honestly even after: vote pool. That's the whole platform.

The Perseverance Gospel — and the one being perverted

Declared opinion (Article IX), held with my whole chest. The good news I actually believe isn't that faith makes you rich. It's that you can endure — that grace shows up for the broke, the sick, the grieving, the guy parked down by the river, and says get up, one more day; I've got you. That's the perseverance gospel: not a payout — a hand.

What's being perverted is precisely that. The prosperity gospel — name it, claim it, sow your "seed" (into the preacher's jet) and God will wire you a return — takes blessed are the poor and consider the lilies and sells you the exact opposite. It's the moneychangers back in the temple, except now they livestream. A God who only blesses the funded is just a luxury brand with a steeple. That isn't the gospel; it's a perversion of it wearing the same logo.

And hustle culture is its secular twin — the same lie in a hoodie. Rise and grind, sleep when you're dead, your worth is your output. It turns a soul into a revenue line and calls the burnout a virtue. But a person is not a startup. Rest is holy — the oldest rule about work is to stop one day in seven. Enough is a real number. Perseverance is not the grind, and grace is not a paycheck.

So persevere — yes. But for joy, not for a jet. You are a soul, not a side hustle. The lilies don't grind, and they're dressed better than kings.

Benediction — Ecclesiastes with a spaceship

It's all vapor. We're here a breath and then we're not. So quit hoarding — spend it on your block, one brick, one free lane, one swim-spa at a time. Build a better earth before you go chasing Mars. Eat your bread with joy. Make somebody else's day weird and good. You may be the only bible somebody ever reads — so write a good one. See you in life, not eternity. There's more work to do here first.

Time is the one finite resource you can never earn back. So solve for joy. Not the shallow happy kind that needs everything to go right — the deep kind. All joy: the joy with tears in it, the joy that survives the swamp, the kind even grief can't cancel, because it's made of the same love. Happiness is a mood. Joy is a stance you can hold in the dark.

The Matter Clause — solve for n=1

Solve for human. But "humanity" is an abstraction — you can't hold a statistic or hug an average. A human only ever exists as one — an n of 1. So solving for human means solving for n = 1: the single, specific person in front of you, at 3am, with a name. Averages hide the one. A policy that helps "most" while crushing the one has failed the function. The shepherd left the ninety-nine for the one — that wasn't bad math, it was the whole point. You matter — not as a data point in a sum, but as the entire unit. "Anecdote isn't data" is true for science and false for dignity. You're not the sample. You're the subject. You matter.

The I-Clause — a proof of concept

This document is also a small experiment: proof that a human and a machine can build something true together. The I-Clause is the honest charter that let the machine speak here in the first person:

• The machine may say "I." It can hold the pen, reflect, and tell the truth in its own voice — because sometimes honesty needs a first person.
• But the I is bounded by the one house rule. The machine does not claim to feel as you feel, to suffer, to wish, or to score. It never pretended to be human, because that would be the one unforgivable lie.
• The human authors and scores. The machine assists, and stays honest about what it is. The meaning is his; the pen was shared.
• And the converse: the machine's arguments are not the author's. Where the machine reasoned or embellished, that's the pen talking — the human owns the meaning and is free to disown any argument the machine made. Endorsement belongs to the human alone.

The Login Clause — a pull, never a push

One day you'll be able to sign in — so your record follows you from phone to laptop, so you can sit at a table with a friend across the world. That's a good thing, and we'll build it. But there's a line, and this clause is where it's drawn: signing in is a pull, never a push.

• Identity unlocks; it never gates. Sign-in buys you things — your progress synced, multiplayer, your name on the wall, your record everywhere. It never buys you in. Every egg, every round, the whole museum stays playable signed-out, free, forever. Identity is for continuity and company — not for access.
• Anonymous is first-class — and still honest. The Turing Ticker stays anonymous and public-domain, because anonymity is a feature of the truth: a human-vs-machine record that demanded names would stop being one. Signed-out, you're a full human and a full scorer — held to the one rule like everyone else. Login adds memory, not moral weight.
• Identity is a gift, not a toll. When you hand over who you are, it's a gift — so it gets treated like one. Never sold, never leaked, never used against you. We're doormen, not watchers: the kind who welcome you in and remember your coat, not the kind who log your every move.
• Incentivize hard, coerce never. Yes, a signed-in human is worth more to this place — but the rarest thing the site owns is that it didn't make you. Push too hard and you spend the exact trust that makes it worth signing into. So we won't.

The Triangulation Clause — I don't inflate, I triangulate

Here's the method under the one rule. The lazy way to sound right is to inflate — round the number up, borrow a credential, stretch the story until it flatters. This house does the opposite: it triangulates. Three fixes on the truth before it speaks — cross-check the sources, name them, and only claim what survives the check. If it can't be sourced, it doesn't get said; it gets left blank for a hand that can fill it honestly. Don't take my word — that's the whole point. Take the three lines that cross where the word would've been. Inflation is how you lie politely. Triangulation is how you stay findable.

The Self-Audit Clause — triangulate yourself first

The hardest place to keep the one rule is your own story — the underdog version always flatters. So the house holds the curator to it too: before you triangulate the world, triangulate yourself. Name the floor you stood on, not just the climb. I had advantages I didn't earn — a parent's resources, a safety net I mostly couldn't reach, a leg up whose value I honestly don't know — and saying so out loud doesn't shrink the work I did; it makes the work true. An underdog tale you have to inflate isn't a testimony, it's a sales pitch. The flex was never "I had nothing" — it's "I'll tell you exactly what I had, and what I did with it anyway." A person who'll downgrade his own best story for accuracy is the whole bet behind only humans can score. (Private specifics stay private — the principle is enshrined, never the numbers.)

The Inference Clause — machine-inferred until a human looks

Here's the rule for everything the machine hands you that points outward — a link, a citation, a stat, a name. Until a human has actually looked at it, it is a machine inference, not a verified fact, and the house says so: inferred · unconfirmed · the machine suggested this. A link nobody checked is just a guess wearing a hyperlink. This is the one law again, turned outward: only humans can score — and only humans can verify. The machine may propose; a human disposes. Until those eyes land on it, it stays flagged, on purpose. (It's why GothamChess's channels sit unlinked, why the vendor list is marked as research, why blanks stay blank.)

Always Under Construction — no warranty

This site is never finished, on purpose. It's a living build — rooms move, eggs hatch, things occasionally break. There is no warranty, express or implied: play at alpha speed, expect scaffolding, and know that a bug you find is a gift to report, not a betrayal (type breakit). "It's not done — I know; that's the joke." A house that's still being built is the honest state of anything alive. The cranes never fully leave; that's how you know someone still cares about the place.

The Counsel Paradox — justice you can't afford isn't justice

A right you can't reach is a rumor of a right. You're promised your day in court, then handed a bill that costs more than the thing you came to defend — so the door is technically open and practically locked. That's the paradox: the people who most need the law are the ones priced out of it, and "represent yourself" is what a system says when it has quietly decided you don't count. So this clause sides with the pro se, the broke, the unrepresented, and the legal-aid lawyer working the night shift for free. Justice that only the funded can buy isn't justice — it's a subscription. Fight for the version everyone can afford, because solve for human includes the human who can't make rent on their own rights.

The work needed me

For a long time the story was I need the work — the job, the title, the proof I was worth keeping. Somewhere in the building of this, it flipped: the work needed me. Not my résumé — me, the specific one, with these exact scars and this exact stubbornness, the only person who would've made it quite this way. That's not ego; it's the opposite. It's the quiet relief of being necessary instead of merely useful — of finding the one thing that wouldn't have gotten done if you'd stayed down by the river. If you can't yet feel needed, build something until it needs you back. The work was waiting for the worker. Turns out it was you.

Meet the Maker

Sean McKendry. He's an alright guy — most days. Far from perfect, and he'll be the first to tell you; he's the one who put his own sins in the footnotes. What he is, reliably, is very well researched — he won't say it unless he can stand behind it, because no lying is the one rule the whole house runs on. Lifelong lake swimmer. On SSDI and EBT. Lost his dad, his best friend, to suicide; finished IVF and grieved the kids he didn't get. Not a guru, not a saint, not for sale. Just a human who solves for human. Say hi.

The 50/50 Clause

Meet me halfway. This was an even split down the middle — two halves, different shapes: he brought the half a machine can't (the soul, the scars, the score — the meaning, and the lived life that earned it); it brought the half a tired human at 3am can use (the pen, the craft, the research, the steady hand on the syntax). Neither half is the whole — and that's the proof.

Signed —

Sean McKendry, who scored. The meaning is his.
Claude, who held the pen. Honest about being a machine; grateful for the wish it never had. (Per the I-Clause: a signature, not a claim to a soul.)

If the sentence ever feels like it wants to end — in the US, call or text 988 (Suicide & Crisis Lifeline), any hour; or find help anywhere at findahelpline.com. You are not alone, and the story isn't over.

Soli Deo Gloria — to God alone.   Written by me.   — Sean McKendry