Length Is Usually Intensity. Not Time.

A Screaming Comes Across The Sky.

All The Animals, The Plants, The Minerals, Even Other Kinds Of Men, Are Being Broken And Reassembled Every Day, To Preserve An Elite Few, Who Are The Loudest To Theorize On Freedom, But The Least Free Of All.

So Generation After Generation Of Men In Love With Pain And Passivity Serve Out Their Time In The Zone, Silent, Redolent Of Faded Sperm, Terrified Of Dying, Desperately Addicted To The Comforts Others Sell Them, However Useless, Ugly Or Shallow, Willing To Have Life Defined For Them By Men Whose Only Talent Is For Death.

Some Typewriters In Whitehall, In The Pentagon, Killed More Civilians Than Our Little A4 Could Have Ever Hoped To.

But On The Way Home Tonight, You Wish You'd Picked Him Up, Held Him A Bit. Just Held Him, Very Close To Your Heart, His Cheek By The Hollow Of Your Shoulder, Full Of Sleep. As It It Were You Who Could, Somehow, Save Him. For The Moment Not Caring Who You're Supposed To Be Registered As. For The Moment, Anyway, No Longer Who The Caesars Say You Are.