The cattle's gaze with grass still attended

The street. It's now become nothing more than a transparent stage for the commoner, for the weak stomached, and the whores that have nothing else to produce but motion upon the stimuli. The short, the tall, the men and women with “hearts on their sleeves” as they say? If only the great eyes of Yahweh or Re or Zarathustra or Mistra, they would be scorched and torn apart with dicks cut off to count the dead- or babies ripped apart in the very name of democracy, freedom, diplomacy, love, ideal, capital, -ism? The rampart broken through by the angelic winged god of Mar who posses a lion's body- the rampart of the street is annihilated and the calm before the storm is now- the present. The images of the troop's minds are focused on the killing and the mastery and calmness of their blades; what really makes them soar is the spoils of war and the raping of all the women before heads are cut off to stop the screams. The screams will keep no soldier awake at night because Mar is there- he's watching it all after the rampart is taken down. His eyes alone bring comfort to the soldiers because they are acting on RIGHT.

"Don't give them slippery stuff like philosophy or sociology to tie things up with. That way lies melancholy. Any man who can take a TV wall apart and put it back together again, and most men can, nowadays, is happier than any man who tried to slide-rule, measure, and equate the universe, which just won't be measured or equated without making man feel bestial and lonely. I know, I've tried it; to hell with it. So bring on your clubs and parties, your acrobats and magicians, your daredevils, jet cars, motorcycle helicopters, your sex and heroin, more of everything to do with automatic reflex. If the drama is bad, if the film says nothing, if the play is hollow, sting me with the theremin, loudly. I'll think I'm responding to the play, when it's only a tactile reaction to vibration. But I don't care. I just like solid entertainment."