Shut the Fuck Up. Censorship is the suppression of speech, or public communication. You guys are going to have to let porn just slide by which is what most of porn does, anyway, it goes right to where you live. To varying degrees, there is always scale. Whose is Biggest. It’s a stupid, dull game. Learn to live with it, or you will live by what you may or not read, listen to, jerk off to, touch, dance with, and gives us stars, we are the stars. Usually such material is considered objectionable, harmful, sensitive, or “inconvenient.” This is code for sex. Is pornography sex. Yes. Does it reach kids. Are you kidding me. The divide between the Overt Patriarchy and teenagers. Dives deep. Overt Patriarchy never had a chance. If you went into the Sonoran Desert alone, and you were among the rocks no Homo sapiens had ever seen. This is how it always is. An unease between ourselves. You will be censored by obscurity. It will shrivel you dick, and it has an agent. Censorship is easy. But how do you see censorship as conducted by governments, private institutions, including the ones who define legacy, and other controlling bodies claim such nonchalance as to cynically suggest that literacy is the province of education. Technology is fine. But literacy is what will save our species. You know it. Your English teachers knew it. But we are still failing seventeen-tear-olds. We have thrown money at it at the federal level for seventy years. We. Are. Still. Illiterate. We tolerate it because we associate laziness with toleration itself. Fuck bootstraps. Get real. Grow up. No one thought we would live this long. How progressive of us. Culture is an age scale, a ritual money scale, and a diagnosis scale of a testing apparatus known throughout the galaxy as the Great Machine and who wants to live in it. Legacy. Dostoevsky was a writer bound to the destinies of Revolution. What comes around, goes around. It became the Period When It Was Totally Prohibited to even mention the name. Dostoevsky. The difficult, controversial, but on the whole, “our” writer both during and after the anniversary year of 1956. Us communists. Finally, sometime in the middle of the 1960s, Dostoevsky was almost completely rehabilitated. Between the sun and the sun, there’s writing. We do not watch characters in whatever story exists, twist in the wind. Often, we are them. The dark is holding its breath. All muscle. All bone. All winter’s seeds. Holding the past so deep inside the waterweeds, the earth just swallows us whole. The demons. Bruised like nails.