In the distance I hear rumbling. I am watching the plain from my mountaintop and I consider the war.
I wish I were a braver man, like Bertrand da Born, I wish I had the understanding of Machiavelli.
Lacking the force and the penetration, my only hope lies in staying here, in the middle of my particular nodescape, surrounded by nodes about Mexico, Italy and certain personal obsessions.
The nature of things is indeed very very complex, and to understand this particular story it woud have to be told many times, at least three (I hear there are three factions, not that I want to know more or with more certainty), possibly four.
Even praying to Eris does not help very much now. I still follow the Pentabarf, but the hot dog buns are running low. I am even running low on swap, and the scullions, them of low sanguage, are clamoring for more slops. They could have tortilla soup, but they want slops.
... the other day
EDB said I looked tasty. And then absolutely nothing happens. Still, the gnaw-worm of gnawing gnaws at me. Bound as I am to the
Wheel of Oppression., a hopeless cybernetic
hamster, I run to my most protective nodes, flitting from
Tlalpan to
Xochimilco on a
pesero - can't afford a
taxi.
Still I realize that it is all paper, possibly electronic, nonetheless paper (in a higher sense).
I hear a knocking at the door. The Nova police has come for me. I must go.