High on a magic mountain, on the near edge of Christmas 2025....
What looked in MAGA like transmogrification and the devilution of our loving republic--catering to the transient complaints of the ruggles, the rubles, and the rabble--their ascension was onto a far mountain placing them outside the collective to the extent that we could hear their caterwauls, but never feel their sentiments calling to purposed revenging and a mighty concourse of insults from partially convincing leadership.
Sports entertainment's crowning hat picked up by a new king, that is actually an old king in pauper's fare: fuscia, magenta, beta tested catchphrases in occlusion, concluding towards that vanishing frontier, and a pauper pretending to be a king become a king pretending to be a pauper, a Corporate champion bumped into obscurity at the hands of a vagabond king corporate, on the shoulders of Jericho, Danielson, Omega, Samoa Joe, and various Dukes, Earls and knights of acting and action, theatre of physicality in strength, dexterity in decoration with wit and wonder.
A draught was brought to an end in the final days of one month of foreboding rainfall deficit; I found it novel, a provision of God: each condition coloring our days, backdropping our comedia del arte. I had spreadsheets and graphs, some self-made, NWS, and MS pinging locations, Jupyters, from staring at the future, to glancing at the past. I made spreadsheets, my readers; I made spreadsheets.
Anum of expanding consciousness, phrenetic development in language, communication, and even machines having a place in the discourse--devices induced for the uptake of clientele fundage, and perversely in odds to produce their own income, the open jaws of chatbots reserved, autistic.
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