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When I think about them my head hurts. When I talk about them other peoples eyes squint. When I look for them they are hard to find except for the signs the subtle symbols. Where they live must be far away, places that I have never been, but they must have computers and telephones and they must meet occasionally I suppose, at the Builderberg Hotel or the Bohemian Grove. What they do there must be Bacchanal decadent, even alien or perhaps its all just business the crunching of numbers the twisting of fate the shaping of the destinies of the faceless the proletariat. We should find them. We should kill them if we can, but When I think about them my head hurts, so I stop. |
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