It Was The Day My Grandmother Exploded.

I Am Not Being Obtuse. You Are Being Paranoid.

Any Such Inklings Were Like A Few Scattered Grains Of Truth Dissolved In An Ocean Of Nonsense, And Were Anyway Generally Inextricably Bound Up With Patently Paranoid Ravings Which Served Only To Devalue The Small Amounts Of Sense And Pertinence With Which They Were Associated.

One Should Never Mistake Pattern For Meaning.

Even Galaxy-spanning Anarchist Utopias Of Stupefying Full-spectrum Civilisational Power Have Turf Wars Within Their Unacknowledged Militaries.

Something In Your Voice Tells Me We Approach The Question Of Remuneration.