Our wisdom flows so sweet. Taste and see.
TRANSMIT - initiate the signal ville des lumières - RECEIVE - "a bastion of culture, a must-see travel destination" - LET THEM EAT CAKE - initiate the ever-burning ever-churning revolution - WITNESS - Paris
Witness the secret culture gestating in the capital of old Europe, sweetling. Eyes and Pyramids meet in secretive clubs and exclusive salon, speaking of freedom in cigar-smoke haze. "Fuck or be fucked", they whisper to one another. Brandywine warms them when the fires go out. Their voices can't go too loud, sweetling, lest brown boots and red hearts roust them out. The movement grows gravid under death-rich earth, swelling with discontent fecundity.
"Fuck or get fucked!" They shout. The City of Hearts becomes just another battlefield in Europe. The crimson cross love battlefields, sweetling, especially against such a hated foe. The chevauchee returned, turned inward. They sweep sweep sweep the bluesteel talon , the blue-gloved hands hands right out of Paris, out of France, out of Europe. Good riddance to bad blood.
You know the rest of the story, sweetling. The Illuminati plant corruption in new soil, a new society in the New World - soil just as red. Paris becomes a point of pride, a lion's den. Blue heads mounted on a Red wall; stories of good hunting become a pleasant entertainment.
Time passes. The same hunters trade the same stories. Details change, sweetling, it makes the story richer. The Illuminati have three hundred heads and are nine feet tall, and every one with a bellyful of rot. The Parisian Old Guard grow distended and fat, so transfixed on the foes of the past that they fail to spot new ones in their midst. Where comes the Saint to tame them?
WITNESS - Leroy Plante, sanitation scrubber. The first man to go missing - this time. Betrayed, devoured by the labyrinth he -
SIGNAL INTERRUPTION!
Hiya, Chuck. It's John.
Did you know that japan has a name for the feeling of disillusionment one feels when on holiday in Paris? That feeling when you arrive somewhere nearly mythical, only to find it's as polluted and infested as the rest of the world. The wonders of the world are tourist traps, the great works of art are something you can see on a cell phone from home, everyone hates you for being a foreigner, and the wine isn't even that good.
It's classified as a mental illness, of course, but I think it's something everyone should go through, Chuck. That pain, that delusion of persecution, that heartbreak...It's weakness leaving the body. Delusions fading away to remind you that the world is the world, no matter where you go.
Wherever you go, there's the disease, the corruption, the...sorry, Chuck. I shouldn't speak ill of you to your face. That was rude.
Enjoy your vacation...
TRANSMIT - initiate the signal ville des lumières - RECEIVE - "a bastion of culture, a must-see travel destination" - LET THEM EAT CAKE - initiate the ever-burning ever-churning revolution - WITNESS - Paris
Witness the secret culture gestating in the capital of old Europe, sweetling. Eyes and Pyramids meet in secretive clubs and exclusive salon, speaking of freedom in cigar-smoke haze. "Fuck or be fucked", they whisper to one another. Brandywine warms them when the fires go out. Their voices can't go too loud, sweetling, lest brown boots and red hearts roust them out. The movement grows gravid under death-rich earth, swelling with discontent fecundity.
"Fuck or get fucked!" They shout. The City of Hearts becomes just another battlefield in Europe. The crimson cross love battlefields, sweetling, especially against such a hated foe. The chevauchee returned, turned inward. They sweep sweep sweep the bluesteel talon , the blue-gloved hands hands right out of Paris, out of France, out of Europe. Good riddance to bad blood.
You know the rest of the story, sweetling. The Illuminati plant corruption in new soil, a new society in the New World - soil just as red. Paris becomes a point of pride, a lion's den. Blue heads mounted on a Red wall; stories of good hunting become a pleasant entertainment.
Time passes. The same hunters trade the same stories. Details change, sweetling, it makes the story richer. The Illuminati have three hundred heads and are nine feet tall, and every one with a bellyful of rot. The Parisian Old Guard grow distended and fat, so transfixed on the foes of the past that they fail to spot new ones in their midst. Where comes the Saint to tame them?
WITNESS - Leroy Plante, sanitation scrubber. The first man to go missing - this time. Betrayed, devoured by the labyrinth he -
SIGNAL INTERRUPTION!
Hiya, Chuck. It's John.
Did you know that japan has a name for the feeling of disillusionment one feels when on holiday in Paris? That feeling when you arrive somewhere nearly mythical, only to find it's as polluted and infested as the rest of the world. The wonders of the world are tourist traps, the great works of art are something you can see on a cell phone from home, everyone hates you for being a foreigner, and the wine isn't even that good.
It's classified as a mental illness, of course, but I think it's something everyone should go through, Chuck. That pain, that delusion of persecution, that heartbreak...It's weakness leaving the body. Delusions fading away to remind you that the world is the world, no matter where you go.
Wherever you go, there's the disease, the corruption, the...sorry, Chuck. I shouldn't speak ill of you to your face. That was rude.
Enjoy your vacation...