I imagine the gladness like ruffles, and bliss like dark red satin.
a plural narrator. hm. but which is more depressing? the very epitome of genocide, an overshadowing global scar on early twentieth century europe?
or that rebellious south-american chaos of torture and fanaticism, exile and assassination?
or this, this hardly-ever-gotten-to-in-high-school-history-class asian insanity, which is more recent but not as close. not as touching my western naivety.
or does to separate them make any sense? maybe they are equal. symmetric. symptoms spawned from the same seeds.
or am I really worried?
who ever is?
worry like everything else is so perishable.
and if forever doesn't exist to be believed in?
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