This is what was promised, this land. From a far, far distance a man stands puckering with power, mouth on ass and balls, he is an orange sphincter condemning again the Moabites. It is convenient; it is expedient; it is petulant.
The succor of sycophants is the lyricism of war. Listen, you are always enamored, la petite mort.
You know better. Reanimate yourself. Like your petty godling.