|figure eleven) Open thy doors, O Lebanon, that the fire may devour thy cedars.|
This pious sack of a fart flaps its flag from our pole now. Now a moment will resemble everywhere and the president of my hands won't finish its room. Now you can't fly away from that sad fucking shit stained cube in the new wing under distemperate skies. You can't rumble in the alley, in the back and as safe as bread be. You can't get away in a house by the dream.