Look, M. President, this job is a crude indoctrination to the vials of power. Our agreement expires four years hence, and I will merely appear, a silent ocean, waiting for my hurricane ear. The silent swirl center is the object of my dreams, my imagination, my nightmare. To wait in the wings of a graying eagle, prematurely bald, my jealous eyes search the crossword in the window for a puzzle I might be allowed to solve. We watched the news for years, you and I, our analysis and theories make my Marx your Engels, until you insisted on Leninification on that frightful October street. Complexity is the mother of a winning lie, we both believed it; that's how S. King made those horrific millions and we were to be the authors of a destiny farce that would make the mandate of heaven blush and reveal itself as an accidental warm afternoon. Manifest, purposive thinking, every trinket in any book, our alchemy was as rigorous as Oppenheimer's blue-eyed boy. And while yes, Krishna, your choice to fight is merely your fate, the mechanisms of the universe are miserable justification for what you're about to do.