They dig the four-foot graves Gazes averted. Rows and rows A mouthless scream, pending investigation disappeared. Things disappear. People are "disappeared". "The taste of onions" on a Christmas list. Normalcy hanging like a guillotine. "Normalcy". Smell it and throw up. (^ our dearest hope is to be left to our rubble and our stinking charred flesh in peace) Why pretend any more? Make your state-sponsored shadow-puppets, your wounded howls of bloodthirst. The side effect is the direct goal. A Palantir algorithm laser-aimed at the hospitals, the schools, the gentle, the merciful, the ignorant, the blindsided, the fact-speakers, the nightingales. Carpet bombed. (I am the West. I lie in ignorance. I pump the bellows of the machine. I am doing this.) How many martyrs does it take to turn the axle? Choke on your swords of damocles. Crush your lungs flat in your tar fields Dogs Keep the clean air out of your filthy mouths. The concept of air. You filthy fucking ratbags Choke and die