The dream breaks out past the dress up, the costumes and offices and all the naked emperor jazz that goes along with it. You wake all meat and bone, bound by the same old bonds, caught up in the same old cages. The whole ball of wax, all the monkeys by the barrel, the stacks for stacks and stacks— all breath and spittle, from the know how to whistle to heaven’s furthest outpost. The stick figures we whittle from equal parts ink, mystery, and mumbo jumbo charged with ominous portents, as deadly as their witness might wrought. It’s only magic that makes them stick, a magic that is subject to boot and brick. Work the numbers, the physics does the rest.
It’s as real as your cup of coffee. It’s as real as that sandwich the other day. The words and the ways loose and easily slipped. If the numbers aren’t favorable, change the math. Every army is a set of plus ones. The street gets in everything, every observation is a tell. Weird these wars with only one side throwing shots. Impunity is a pretty big Achilles Heel. There’s an awful lot of lead with chins to be checked. Bad days will come back to bite.
When they tell you to submit or they’ll hurt you, believe them. They speak in their fears, lashing out with their weakness, trying to be the pain. When they speak with glee of murder and assault people with idiot mayhem, they are the enemy. They have come to chain you or worse. You owe them no mercy, whatever any king or priest declares. Fuck them up, fustigate them, however close suits. You will teach them to mind their Ps and Qs. You will teach them their myths and maths. They will show their evil for all to witness. You will teach them they’re history.