You speak in euphemisms and delicacies and fabrications. With such bombastries and pomposities and grandiloquences. What’s with this false front and the put-on high-handedness? And the whispering down the alley and talking in innuendos and riddles and smoke and mirrors and this gosh-darned twisting up in tangles?
I wouldn’t know.
Smug yes I am I’ve no doubt that it’s true. And of my own volition and choice and free will- to do what I want when I want and how I want.
Is that freedom?
A manifesto with gusto and musto that’s meaty, with substance not trifling or lightweight like a feather. Nor inconsequential as one could stake one’s life on it. Nor flimsy and frothy as one could state it breathlessly.
No need. If not for these immodest theatricalities and overwrought rhetoricalities and never-ending trivialities and trumperies and strumpets, and the brow-beaters and the drum-beating, getting beaten up and beaten down and eaten up alive.
Have you noticed the run on chill pills?
Oh for the philosophers and prophets and sages. All hail the self-appointed gurus and seers. Bow down to the wolf-criers and pot-stirrers and snake-oilers. Relent to the rabble-rousers and concubines and show boaters.