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Apollo’s lament:

“I personally don’t get it. Jehovah never wrote a poem, and Jesus never shot an arrow, far as I know. You never hear anybody praising Allah’s good looks. What have they got that I haven’t?

“So I decided to give it one more shot.

“When I assumed human form, it wasn’t to chase tail. That’s my dad’s deal—bulls and swans and shit. I set my sights higher.

“It’s all about trends. You need to catch the right wave. But you look at human society, and it’s obvious: entertainers. Those are the new gods.

“Being, you know, the deity who inspired deathless paeans and epic poetry, I figured I’d lay waste to the songwriting game. I moved to Burbank and started making connections.

“I don't even need to ask—of course you’ve heard of my work. A hundred and fifty top ten numbers in a single decade—sixty-seven number one hits—so many platinum records, you could melt them and build a statue. Take that, Paul motherfucking McCartney.

“How about ‘All the Saddest Girls’? Yep, thirty weeks at the top of the charts. Or ‘No No No No No’, which Adele and John Legend both covered? Or maybe, I don’t know, a little tune called ‘Streets of Gibraltar’? Yeah, the one Spielberg used in the movie of the same name.

“They’ve used my songs at the Super Bowl, the Oscars—even the Olympics, which makes perfect sense, if you think about it.

“And you know what? Nobody’s impressed.

“It’s the one thing I hadn’t counted on. People want struggle and triumph. Conquering personal demons. They want it to look hard.

“Whereas for me, by default, it’s easy.

“I never used to let the haters bother me. ‘Too perfect,’ my ass. What’s wrong with perfect? But these days, it’s gotten harder. Discouraging. Depressing. Just a little recognition would be nice. One of those lifetime achievement awards. Something. Anything.

“I’m going to be brutally honest with you. I just—don’t—get it.”