Long Story; Short Pier.

God, hes left as on aur oun.

Jesus Macht Frei.

Parlor games.

Paging Michael Graham.

Yo. You with your oh-for-fuck’s-sake-not-this-bullshit-again about how liberals are humorless and how it’s obvious in that “Where’s the WMD?” bit all the nabobs laughed at that the President’s just joshing about something he madly, truly believes so could you liberals just lighten up, please. Your ass just got handed to you.

(“Please,” Bush whimpers, his lips pursed in mock desperation, “don’t kill me.”)

  Textile help

Saving history.

JR.

Trump's data.

Weizenbaum.

PIS.

Colors.

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Chapter Twenty-Nine: “Mass”

City of Roses

the Koan

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  • To do
  • Another memo I didn't get
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