The fop walks across the street bravely. Tie a moniker onto a chosen package, to show the correlations, give a moniker what it deserves, what it really doesn't need. I saw the fop was wearing a tee shirt, I couldn't make out what it said. Possibly it had two doves on it. So I assume the slogan possibly had to do with space peace. Catalysts Driven to make a person feel bad. Feel cheap and disgusting and bad. The fops want you to feel like cows herded in a fencing, ready to be slaughtered. The fear is the faces. Pig spattings from leftover gunnings sink into the earth, green pig vomit permanently stains the soil. They want you to feel sick. The spoon-sugar arrives in the mail, that is the day in which I am no good. A Victim without retort.

 

        I am gagged first, force-fed second, by a labrador persecutor. My red spotted saliva ran down the corners of my mouth; begging without making a sound. The spoon-sugar is so sweet, pure. I read it and wondered why I get a knot in my back, it looks so wonderfully well-intentioned. A naive little sweetjam is it's wishbone. 

 

        Quickly constructed purebread; purveyor of judgement for every mortal soul given to life. It bothers me. I let is go, keeping a great watch on my actions. Metering my moves and speech for possible flaws. The imperfections disappear, I make them disappear, for the time