On Election season 2024 and the nature of people, some preliminary abrandonment of human civility.

Forecasting ever by which, for which, unto and untowards, man puts down this God he found that gave him society, he rebukes God first, bitterly, and begins to nitpick his own uniform in the lifespan, until all meaning has evaporated into that bitter rime that he calls knowledge, and utterly, segmented and compartmentalized into little slave segments, what makes him feel as if he is in control of himself, until at last, gone feral, he goes back into the jungles from whence he came.

The Stephanie Abrams or the Jen Carfagno of the Dark Night of the Soul, and Flipside, comrade in this sluggard wash we call life.

"Purgation and repentence" and how they rebuke one another so much, and gone is the internal botchagaloo board game of discovering one's own inner sins, so that all that remains is an empty frontage--something from an old Chaplin film, and those the see behind, run dejected and without much aim at all except to reach the jungle--be it the jungles of Asia or South America, even Africa, land devoted to tribes, land devoted to the state, repurposed as the homeland of homo erectus.

The Meninites in Walmart, are some of us, or the illiterate prostrating the New York Public Library, or the unsighted at MOMA; a country without its own devoted persons, and persons without a country devoted to them, but to a vague new standard, such of a "living document", that the scholars of the document come to an understanding that they can interpret it into any malleable reachable meaning, however untowards or seemingly inhuman, that something could be both strictly inhuman, and yet humane by the scholastic standards.

The Polemics and The written Philippics, portraying a society of ravening wolves cavorting and giving excuse to their unjust nature, and the Machiavellian paradigm evidence on both sides, in one, a will to money, and the other, a will to traded-away life responsibilities, such that we have the nanny state and the golf course nation in remarkable thinly veiled similitude, and yet at each other's throats for power and control, as a nation of serfs send them 20 dollar increments, and perhaps condescend to vote in an election with very unpalatable choices: convicts, demagogues, and people who should be convicts.

The political message of hope is not dead, and we need not re-brand warmed-over choices from the past, but, in spite of our serfdom, rebuke the establishment, for the life of me, not understanding how Ronna McDaniel stays in control of the GOP, or that the name of the DNC chief isn't on the tongues of the average people, in abeyance and acknowledgement of the figurehead-in-chief, fed strange ideas by an army of handlers.

Parse our own natures?  Dare we admit a wrong, even in our own heart of hearts?  We say we are, at once forgiven, and eating our young at the very same gathering, while those in control chuck to client states, the bruises of other nations, and all of them with grown children, perhaps all are corrupt children that serve in the business of the ruling class, businesses in disguise within the body politic.  Indeed, in the far future when we have returned to the jungles, they can eat, cannibalizing, the made-anemic bones of their Ronna Mcdaniels and others, demagogues, and so forth, meanwhile, the vast portion of the body politic not returning phone calls, and no longer in consideration or discussion of the RonDonJohn or JoeFrackSwamy, or whatever materializes in the coming months; the professionals have done their work too well on both sides, and anyone stepping forward, it would seem, is a mark for destruction, to be pulled-apart in pieces in front of the eyes of millions.