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August 30, 2015
It's all such diabolical twisting when the odds become clear enough to burn on the front lawn of the white house, and such, the day, as it becomes night, pushes by intent to push through obstacles as vehicles without form, drawing energy from the ennui, that it might slither through, pushing the vitals like cancerous mice with loudspeakers announcing to the streets, now empty of human, crammed with dogs slavering for twinkies and other perverted sweet treats. And so we go to the end again. It never changes, only the names and peripheral blocking, mobius constructions that devour cerebral origami.