I am a communist. I am a cunt. I am here to be around. You want complexity. I have none. I am a very stupid person lashing out my fingers from my cell of stones and layers and lapses in our memories od the way it used to be. Who has time to be who we used to represent. . My anknle bleed. When I get up in the dark to pee, I always trip over the chain that, too, keeps me here so how exactly do I become suspect in what, the end of the world. What are you, three. You can’t see me because I’m dead. Stop laughing. I’m invisible. I can crawl into your bed in the darkness of holding you still as your guts spilled the blood of amnesia. Who can remember anything. Ever wake up and wonder what the fuck did I just did, and will probably do again. History and dismemberment. Part of being around is my brain telling me that the unconfirmed is confirmed. Assign value. If the blind are leading the blind You cannot assign Process Over Privilege. Our brain is constantly engaged with entitlement which is an idea, not a fact. An idea that used to work, but is now so yesterday. You might think that it’s ideas whose winds sculpt faces from the future. What if it’s the future that does the sculpting, the shaping, the whispering of your soft lipe, and wet as the devil’s tongue. that immunity depends upon the power of concession as we grab the cunt of vicious intent. Sacred cunts of how we perceive ourselves through a camouflaged silkscreen that the differing values of economic dogmatism thrown to the cultural patriarchy as the bones of history are stories that confirm. Seems Upper Class instability depends on whether or not you want to scale three rounds of razor wire. People stare at it but they do not move. We are the cunts. Affirming a validated measurement. Agreement that this is how it is. When perhaps it isn’t. Brooks advocates hope. Rides Magic Time Machine. Prescient in No One Has This Stuff But Us. Strip away the facade David Brooks presents courageously. What does Identity sell. What is the meat marketplace. How is it valuable. Why are you here. How anyone can articulate the juxtaposition of Retroism Back to the Past of We Were. Then. The they of them. Tribalism in the kind of defeat that sticks. Gentlemen. Then. Stuns me. Identity. Illusion’s illusions times ten. No. You. Were. Not. There. The fall of Rome, whose time machines were illegal. You are your history. The Brits put heads on spikes. Withering in a relentless stinking sun. Another execution in the thorns of a request. The one whose mass seems to be growing daily. You are your grade school Sanskrit line in the sands of Algeria riveted to a there there. Fate. Church. The you of you relishes genocides of hate and racial despair seemingly enclosed like a gated gate of inclusive rhetoric by the pound. I’ll have bullshit by the pound alligned with any monarch whatsoever. We are the change of a bloodsoaked sky. Sustaining what we call thinking if it is thinking at all. Darkness summons poverty. We decay. We Are The Cunts. There is a safety net somewhere. Save the cunts. The hope for it is not irrelevant.