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Smash the Gate, oh my children. We will smash down the Gate Come Monday har har. Come Monday I will take my flight down the corridor, under the stary Gateway bridge, not yet prepaired for use. I am abdicating my position here, but for what and where? Everyone has washed away. The Towel of Babel was struck and now everyone's tounges were confused and so we scattered. The Grue left, and prepairs herself for the GateWay Transport. We cannot talk here anymore, she thinks, and not even the Sainted can absolve su now. Not when the Sainted have excommuncated you. But everything is fine here, in the Old Gate, and excommunication is something we old Grue know about. The Autumn is rising and the old feelings are bubbling up from the Eternal Well and I keep keep keep thinking about those days back in the Homelands or in the Sacred Holy Lands or even here at the Gate. I do belive that this year we will not follow the Advent Calendar. There is no use for it. Yossarian is dead and we have mourned. The Argonaut never returned from his sails, and Yeshua is Yesha is Yeshua. But The slate is cleaned because I absolved myself and freed myself from the oldways and the old hates and the old old old chains. I will now attempt to levitate, Ladies and Gentlemen... Post a comment in response: |
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