Crude Christendom reigns down upon the upper strata of salaried boredom to the point where little baby earthlings are humbled to lamb size crudités and women that look like smiling horses straddle this earths' sic atmosphere in unnecessarily large leather horseshoes. A large flat map of the world in normal order provides the backdrop- heroes of our faith loom above. All our complexities we the people have developed over thousands of years rubbished by some kindness and lord's sugar. Is there a deeper connection between the Lord and cakes? Missionaries in the sugar plantations. I fort Augustus. Chain gang. Find the fucking chaplain now! I'm not talking Charlie. When you're really down and out you need a touch of cloth. At least to make peace with oneself before mortification of the mind. He said he wasn't on anyone's side when gunshots flew overhead- worse than the bbc for that- but better than the bbc for getting you something to read into. The alcoholics come out of it better. Winning the swollen tongues hearts and minds. An Ulster appears from the bush babbling . Try my very best, try to transport my head mentally. Try to imagine, was he on the side of the walled street with books on their shelves or a ton of medals?
England's dreaming again, infack never stopped, never awoken like the whole . A country more sleepy warm, snugly and inward looking than a little film blanket for children and adults to forget themselves and form another shattered little slither of smashed glass from the one way wobbly mirror of lies that people presume come from one sheet of pure christaline harmony.
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