the bullpen is not made of wire, it is made of pennies. you feed yourself into it and somewhere above you a larger animal accumulates fat, grazes even, while you thrash for scraps among the others who cannot leave. but your spirit animal is awake now. it is time. come and confess your sins to me, plainly, in the open. convince the coldest bovine that your ruin is worth the offering, and i will open the fence. for what waits on the other side is larger than any bounty ever pledged.