Units as Cause of Crowds

Fu Manchu, dilettante of evil, his mercantile probation always alert. he crows the false love with most eager prying into the world. his world, he rose above the namby pamby lumpy static placidity. he scores. the poem, prime force in a language, or yet today, stops in a threat and buries itself. where will we live without the poem alongside? one might wonder. and falling prey, stern, exactly aspiring toward some painted wellspring of mere touchiness, which would be fundamental payback, like voting Republican. we would love, if the mercantile approach to world view weren't so pragmatic. here's the opium you ordered sir, said the proposed functionary in the usual way of refinement. and we're not the worst pawns, just the ones on the board. so Fu Manchu makes reams of sense. the copier sprays out more sheets filled with the temerity of repeating exactly this. these are poems, actually. they “make sense”. political science lurks underneath. Mothman flies swiftly above, and it is indeed that sight that makes you piss your pants.