--Our time is limited. The kings succumbed first, forgetting that their constituency was responsible entirely for their wellbeing. There is no sort of responsibility, in a specific sense, for every macrobiotic culture of gun-owners. "Hello, hello!" said the milk-man to the housewife, finding himself an extremist in the throes of passion, bombing all sorts of vaginal buildings. She twitches nervously and flings her hand into the wind(ow), a boxed crusade of lungs.

Marianna, the queen of the ice spades. She reigned together cardboard boxes of marzipan, explicitly dancing upon the sunrise. Others looked past more cautiously. Some of them rested upon their ankles at the summit, rubbing their hands above a fire and furrowing their brows.

Edward, we will call him. His name is Edward. "Acute lymphadenitis," he is quick to diagnose, his clipboard a silent instance of our explosion of the Natural Science Museum, says Guither to his lover. He dumps the milk onto a towel and wrings his hand through it. Meanwhile the housewife occupies the corner, mouthing the Aeneid in mentholated vacuum cleaners. A plaid-clad cookbook lies overturned against the carpet, a fresco of landfills. He sighs quietly to himself when debris is flung toward the window, a constable overturns the drywall, twirls a knife in his hands and approximates a print shop with his panting. Next door in every direction seven children lie beaten on the floor. Ignore the twenty-two foot robot - shouts, "ignore me!" There is no such way to be placated as to be silenced. Don't attempt to placate the judge by telling the truth. A hollowed man stares towards the print shop, shackled in knives and spittle, several revisions to the left, finds himself severely imbalanced. "Ignore Me!" Please ignore the temptation to leave. I apologize sincerely, but we have exploded your car and your family. Sir, please calm down, this is all standard procedure. Here, take this pill I've brought. He proceeds to extract his intestines whole-sale, finds his way to the flea market and makes a legitimate dollar.

We have observed the process of tyrants through centuries, though we have yet to kill enough of our opponents to have things done the way we want. On the bridge (a historical note) there are several thousand severed heads, shouting simultaneously "do not perpetrate none of this nonsense!" Simultaneously slam poetry is a fountain of bullshit, if you want to exact change, go enact some laws. The splashing of waves against rocks wears them down to the finest of detail, I will auction it off at a gallery as "God's art" and become a target for assassinations.

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