what is my capacity? this won't cut it, i agree, wholeheartedly, this simply won't do, it won't damn, either, it won't fly, and if it gains the ability to do so we should all count our valuables and make our peace with misery. we should grow talons, and walk about our towns and cities clacking our claws on linoleum and tile, obscenely. flapping our gums like wings, and sorry things we call tongues, made for swathing foodstuffs and making merry in a variety of indecencies.

 the well of our forefathers has run dry, we are in a barren, a desert for cremes, a ghastly home for dead things, a monitor for changing atmospheric pressures, the pressures we all face, as predator and prey, as lunacy in the hold of a societal ship, one bobbing on oceans that know nothing of fairness and politics, of politeness in the face of extremity, of danger, and rape, and of housing angry ghosts. 

the will of the front runner is evidenced in his diaries, the pages stained with the output of his crime. the will of his victory over and over and over. the will of his victory in time, in space, in the pages of a book of hymns about decadence and mirth, of blood and wine.