This is the life of an artist, waking when woke, shot of hot coffee beans, brewed up right. These snakes still have fangs, but there is no venom. They shed like a scaley husk of rebirth, renewing themselves always. Devouring the hens and eating their eggs. The pit is their destiny, they will slither away soon, they wanna keep their heads.
In the countryside, folks know about the narrow, the actual, the required. These fits and tantrums are a daily feature of the intelligent class. The hair product and make-up is slathered thick, the necklaces sparkle, the ties pop. Occasionally, a drop of spittle will hit the camera lights just right. "Thank God for the deep state."
Reminded of snakes, and bastards, and sickos, and the devil punk, pleased to report the justice laid down on those ISIS effs. Stick with it, our super soldiers can eliminate them all. Screw Turkey, they could've done this already, if they wanted. Burning cages, beheadings, videos. Journalists included, which hits close to home. We are free and brave, but not as free and brave as we used to be.