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FUWARI, KORORI, KARAN, KORON. Mune no naka no onpu ga hajikedasu. . DORIIMU, BIRIIBU mune ni hikari. MAJIKARU, MIRAKURU mahou ga hikaru. KARAFURU, TOROPIKARU na kibun wa.
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I'm laughing just under the bright sunny spot. I was longing much to you. And Why it is shining strongly enough to return not time (when) is. It Oh also clean now but.
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It's something physical. It's a conditioned reaction. It's something physical.. It's a conditioned attraction. But have I finally escaped? Will my eyes no.
A friend of mine dropped me a line,. I got no money, got no job.". it said, "man I gotta run to the USA.. before she fucking came?. She skipped out of Mexico to stay alive..
Here in the land that Abraham was promised to receive we listen to you catechize from your pulpit overseas. You mourn the proofs of our barbarity. Dry your eyes, oh Pharisee. We both speak a settler's cant. We both read from the same old played out scripts and hum familiar tunes, broadcast on fixed frequencies, stuck in locking grooves. We both profess noble intent as we civilize human impediments. So if your hands are clean then noblesse oblige that you wipe that "who me?" look off of your face and concede our designs separated by nothing more than place and time. Different scenes, same crimes. Pray, let him who's without sin cast the first statues of the former rogues turned folk heroes that your forefathers hung. Don't lecture me about plundered soil while you loaf upon your father's spoils. We want nothing more than what you already have: a comforting set of exculpatory "facts" like, say, the myth of an empty land and a conquest so complete we can pull these tanks from our streets and hand the loose ends over to bureaucrats and become just like you - lounging carefree in your cafes, absolved from sin and human grenades. Entre nous, how did your desert bloom?.
fine day in river heights, fine day for your skateboards and bikes, fine day in your cute little world, fine day for tough boys and submissive girls, a fine day to see that the government's got the drop on you. watching everything that you do. but you tell yourself that i you're exempt from their stare and that rules are rules and the system's fair and square, but with wired phones and two-way mirrors, they've been watching you for 20-some years, they regulate your idleness, (get a load of this next line) you agglutinate and acquiesce, this whole goddamn world's a fucking mess, but it's a fine-day in river heights (whammy bar mayhem).
heard a song and i counted out loud the two-steps, the goose-steps back. back from square one, from where we'd just begun, and then it rang a bell-but is this kristallnacht or what the fuck is your plan? would you care to expand? and i don't deny the choice, but I defy you as the voice of anything i've stood for in these past 9 years, i've conquered the nurturing and found that anything worth conquering is powered, built and backed by fear, not by fact. and having said that... meat is still murder. dairy is still rape. and i'm still as stupid as anyone, but i know my mistakes. i have recognized one form of oppression, now i recognize the rest. and life's too short to make another's shorter..
As so many practiced diplomats, so too your vaunted laureates, whose access to the higher rungs of the cultural priesthood is hinged upon their flair for sophistry. Well, I vote you the best-equipped to shrink from speech that might suggest any thoughts your key target-market might not have already signed-off on and ratified. And I vote you most likely to clutter your language with so much deadwood that no amount of pruning will reveal your intensive, protracted campaign of saying nothing at all. Your daydreams of black tie affairs at Rideau Hall. Your acceptance speech. Your dramatic pause. Don't forget to thank those bitter ex-musician cum embedded rock-journalists frantically applauding the latest artist-formerly-known-as iconoclast, giddy from the fumes of a fresh defection, moping to the maudlin beat of a hat rack rhythm section, a tacit understanding of mutual non-aggression enjoyed by every nauseating do-nothing functionary. Really, it's not so much the incessant ruse of assigning profound meaning to the meaningless curios you decorate your sets with in your extraordinarily mundane fictions. It's the (colossal) arrogance of the subtext: the province of human affairs is a field best left to dilettantes with an extraordinary gift for the feigning of paralysis. For saying nothing at all. For daydreams of black tie affairs at Rideau Hall. An acceptance speech. Sustained applause..
29 years in human history:. The total duration of time without war.. What the fuck am I acting so surprised for?. 'Cause if I had a dime. For every single idiotic time.
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