Graffiti of protest. Getting the message where the I (eye) can see it. The words scream in the only way written words can. GET OUT OF AFGHANISTAN. I stared at the wall contemplatively. A man walked up beside.
“I wonder if Afghanistan is painted over Vietnam?”
“Do you have any money?”
“We've met before, haven't we?”
“Dr. Nobody's lecture?”
“Was that the one where the one eyed man stood up and sang?”
“Did the song have to do with blood being the best lubricate for an orgy?”
“We've never met, have we?”
Show yourself sons of oblivion. Show yourself daughters of revolution. Godard is directing the dinner theater players and Madame Rose will not go on after the Rolling Stones. When the eternal prophet mutters, it's thunder. Everything is expanding, trying to break the chains. Everything is expanding, and I'm still wondering what set the universe in motion.
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