Above: favorite number.
Og ég fć blóđnasir
i'm a curse and i'm a sound,
when i open up my mouth.
there's a reason i don't win:
i don't know how to begin
oh, to be a machine
to be wanted, to be useful
By request, the old homenode pic can still be found here for a potentially limited time. When this 419 scammer came for me, I told him he'd get his money as long as he could appease The Council of the Eternal Flame. This was their request. Greetings from Ghana, E2!
07/23: He filled out some forms for me: Page 1, Page 2.
07/24: I complained that he looked too rich and too cheerful in the homenode picture. He sent this instead.
07/26: Group shot. Demanded reshoot due to mispellings.
08/01: Epic failure. This is the reshoot with his "congregation?" Did he think I'd fall for this?
Göring: Why, of course the people don't want war...Why would some poor slob on a farm want to risk his life in a war when the best that he can get out of it is to come back to his farm in one piece? Naturally, the common people don't want war; neither in Russia nor in England nor in America, nor for that matter in Germany. That is understood. But after all it is the leaders of the country who determine the policy, and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy, or a fascist dictatorship, or a Parliament, or a Communist dictatorship...
Gilbert: There is one difference. In a democracy the people have some say in the matter through their elected representatives, and in the United States only Congress can declare wars.
Göring: Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is to tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger.
Hermann Goering and Gustave Gilbert, during the Nuremburg trials.
Almost immediately a voice from the flight deck was heard on the intercom: "We're falling out of the sky! We're going down! We're a silver gleaming death machine!" This outburst struck the passengers as an all but total breakdown of authority, competence and command presence and it brought on a round of fresh and desparate wailing.
Then there was a second male voice from the flight deck, this one remarkably calm and precise, making the passengers believe there was someone in charge after all, an element of hope: "This is American 2-1-3 to the cockpit voice recorder. Now we know what it's like. It's worse than we'd ever imagined. They didn't prepare us for this at the death simulator in Denver. Our fear is pure, so totally stripped of distractions and pressures as to be a form of transcendental meditation. In less than 3 minutes we will touch down, so to speak. They will find our bodies in some field, strewn about in the grisly attitudes of death. I love you, Lance."
This time there was a brief pause before the mass wailing commenced. Lance? What kind of people were in control of this aircraft? The crying took on a bitter and disillusioned tone.
Don Delillo, White Noise
i'm not about to stick my grave
with an apron and a bucket of plans
oh never ever
i've seen your flag on the marble arch
and love is not a victory march
it's a cold and it's a broken
hallelujah
"I found this place on the web," I say. "It's full of writers. Good ones. They're all over the place like some kind of weird headless death cult of writer apostles. I've written some things for them and they're NICE to me. They tell me if they love stuff or hate it. They threaten to castrate me when I insult the bands they like. I feel like I'm home. These people, they think like me. It's called Everything2. They have these rules. Dole out points. It makes them write better, they think. They really try to make each other happy with their writing. They can't stop. They write and write because their genes make them do it."
- iceowl