We are our own prophets.

Prophets have no honor in their own country.

Because prophets bear little good news.

They blame God.

The universe.

What tortilla showed them.

Our own tidings to ourselves are mostly grim.

Glad tidings bring us hope.

And when their tale is proved false, disappointment follows.

Better, we tell ourselves, to lower our expectations.

Be surprised by joy.

But because we have shown ourselves a dimmer future, that surprise never comes.

Prophecy.

Fulfilled.