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.
Roman Ryan 