Stop thinking out of your flask, and drink-in some sense for a change. Guttural palavering bridges no connection another caring human can manage. What you say? Lickspittles to madness. Stop posturing. Your people are burning toddler’s wooden blocks for warmth. You needed the Swedes to slap some truth into your right-harrumphing and toady dissimulation — your occipital lobe is a canker. Your party is a pustule, lanced, dancing off the edge of a cliff — harrumph harrumph and huzzah … no, it must be the abscesses on the temporal lobe — wait! Where does empathy reside? In the heart or in the brain? Is it a lesion on the frontal lobe thing? Where’s the sense and the empathy? Hello? Is there a human in there? Toadeaters of bankrupt ideas.
“Know now how artificial my desperation is. All my problems are created by the time and place I live in.”
— George Cain / Blueschild Baby