He scours the land for good people; even moderately useful people, but doesn’t find any. So he looks to the man who has clothes – a brother – and gives him a crown of dust and forces him on a throne of ruins. Even if he cries out that he has nothing, at least his head won’t take the blame when things get worser than they are now.

Indeed, the entire nation has been turned upside-down into a flurry of chaos, as if a cure could be found in doing what feels right. So the faces of the poor are ground to dust, the necks of the women are outstretched to hold down the men, and the jaws of destruction keep expanding with no intention of stopping at all.

He scours the land, and sees vineyards being merged together to create one large wasteland. And the only “hero” he finds is sitting in the corner of this wasteland, proud that he’s drinking the last cup of wine without getting drunk.


Blah blah blah

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