Martin Heidigger non-essay, assay.

It was Martin Heidigger, that, Dasein, Miles Bennett Dyson perhaps, more of a fungus, a sideshow bout of tetnus than such a graven bastard as to write a text philosophic.  "Being in the world" then, of such, graven bastards, all, such that we make our way, and we pock-mark conscience meats of our others, the body religious, ivory concourse and ebon-pillared thrush.


 

"My Difficulties", perhaps, then to have a ring of such a stinking visage, a text of luxurious dissipations along the Compagna, our within and then without, the Companion Life Insurance and Disabilities Perpetuity HSA.  A familiarity, a kind of unpleasant seafoam spray about the face and throat, teaches the issue.  To say perhaps, of a grandfatherly pretext, "life is hard; then you die."

Perhaps some learn better by example, I wot.

They lined up their political enemies, against a wall, Mexicans as want of power, as it were, rebellions and roilings, and such, and peasant farmers turned folk heroes, to line up so many French or Spaniards, to take unto even the terrorist Irish among the lot.  Such contraries caught bullets about the person, in fatality, and Heidigger's "stereo instructions" of fatalism, this "Dasein", being in the world, of the world, about the world, over, under and through the world.

There was a changalang bell, a two-minute warning, and already, the chairs were empty and the procession had taken up one last number.  Some ambled along the ivory thoroughfare, and some hid about in their cloaks.  There was even a honeypot of precious metals, treasures awaiting, as if the stratagem and agenda for the day lay somewhere along the line of "fortune favors the brave".


 

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