Those that recall the surly beast, inevitably embrace the almost transient delivery of that speech, the one made at the Catskills, just before the militia stormed the tunnel, and the eradication of senses became the name of this new twisted game we are forced to endure, that being the operatic resemblance to the fat lady singing in the crumbling balcony. Rhetoric follows emancipation. How free we were when we were prisoners of our faults and indiscretions. The fallacy is apparent now, and a mistake or trepidation can mean the gallows. It is not freedom’s choice in matters of mankind’s constant maneuvering through justification of uninformed hypothesis of judgment, errors of quality-based motives, the trinkets of a social disorder that spell the clock’s demise. But rather, for a whistle in the dream of a small child’s lullaby, to awake the demon’s curse, the night was so clear, to bring the dawn of fury, the storm of dissolution. – Sinz
