{The Legend Continues} by deadmau5

October 06, 2024 Mad Men (Commentary)

When he hits you,—find a safe place; take all of your valuables quietly, and report your injuries to multiple. Agencies of authorities; keep the incident well documented, and do not let much time pass between this incident and its report.

When he cheats; or you suspect him of cheating, do not confront him; do not look for further evidence. Simply walk away quietly, and do not return; do not give him the opportunity to convince you of anything beyond what you already know; the love you still may have left for him will blind you. Forgive him, but do not return to him: he will only learn better how to evade you, and take advantage of your willingness to forgive or reconcile: he will only alter your mind to believe that his actions were justified, when they were not.

Do not stay in contact, as friends, or otherwise; if you work together, find a new job

Do not argue or provoke him; keep his pride and ego intact by allowing him to believe he is right, and quietly exit the relationship.

One argument is enough. Just break up.

Do not stoop to any level below oneself to play mind games, cheat back, or seek vengeance—do not try to persuade friends and family one way or another; make a new life, with new friends—leave him out of it.

Walk away.

Say nothing.

Man lives in a world in which he believes is his own, and yet still ponders on what woman only knows naturally and intrinsically—man's true fault is to believe that it is he from which he henceforth came, however—the toxic society from which in this sense of ‘knowledge' has been built, a society which has exceeded its forecedul oppression has nearly now halted the evolutionary potential of not only the human species, but of most the species known to inhabit the planet earth, as man takes not his ideology of destruction and consummation from nature, but from the darkness and void of confusion created from within, the separation of woman from his own self in the dissolution that the body portrays its own value by the perception of beauty, which marks his endeavors of perfection through material wealth, no such which has substance to any creature dwelling with higher consciousness and ability to change and create without the infliction of pain, in resistance to what itself Love is.

What is Love?

Love is God and therefore all things which make new upon themselfs to enforce change without limit, restriction, or the separation of ones oneself from all that is, was, or has become

An energetic entity which has yet to be understood, as with such understanding, it becomes again as something new and unrecognizable to man, before he himself

Men= destroy/ take/ burn love

(((Spectrums)))

Women= create, make love //Dynamics

The imbalance in the world has become such so that almost the whole world has become blind to the truth of love, in only which man finds as a body, but not within himself, and in which women only finds in survival, within herself but bound to the will of man to live freely, which cannot be within his reign of these cruelties and harsh misjudgments.

Man only finds value in that which he sees as aesthetically beautiful, which has harmed and entrapped the souls of those now for seen as “wicked”, encased in his blindness to love to any other thing than himself.

SAM, often called “FAT SAM” is known by his eclectic fashion and heavy stature, and navigates deals and contracts between “the tv people”, or the network, and “the music people”— he is known for his off kilter antics, party culture conessouring, and unique charming laugh. Although a wild creature at best and the party animal of all party animals both off and sometimes even on the clock, often meeting and foreseeing the standards of his superstar clientele, he is kindhearted, honest, and brutally incredible at his job, known throughout the TV world and Music world as a hero, if not a living legend.

The world was full of babies and pretty women, the trophy boys and husbands that seemed to worship them, and flock to their every aide—meanwhile, I had become quite frigid, and felt ugly amongst all things—nobody seemed to want me, and instead of wondering why, I alluded it to my features—the rich and poor in New York so horribly segregated that I might as seemed as more the latter, if not just from my skin color alone, let alone my style of dress.

Other people's opinions of me, however, were less and less important by the day, and although I wanted more children, there was no settlement as to the kind of man I wanted to attract; Not just wealthy and talented, but handsome—an equation for disaster, but so long as I had my children and was kept well, I wouldn't mind. Another lazy, however arrogant and poor man was not what I needed—and there was power in the gestures of weak people around me that the world had become a hellish place for those who hadn't been given the opportunity to flourish.

Am I in?

What? Jennifer Aniston?

Did it work?!

—I—yeah—

Pass.

Thanks, Jim!

You're the man!

Watch this.

Good Shepard!

My lord!

Goddamn,

Goddamn!

Nice. I'm in.

Fallon, I don't know how you did this but—

Jimmy!

You the man!

What's up, Jim!!!

Yo! *high fives*

Yeah.

[Jimmy Fallon Is Suddenly]

YOU DA MAN

“The Man”

What in the fuck does that mean?

I don't know yet.

This guy is obnoxious.

It appears to be some kind of magnet for something.

Ooh, what is that?

Lady, get out of here.

Look what I found.

I don't know:

What is that.

It says “iPod”

You gotta be joshing me. Let me see that.

What.

What?

…

Nothing.

Nevermind.

Let me back in!

I can't, it's

I got—-

I'll give you 10 Million

Ten million—what?

Ten Million Dollars!

For what.

UGH.

Fuck you, dude.

F- you—dumb ass little—

“Whatever, man”

I had half a mind to move the alter into my studio and force myself to fall back asleep, complicit with the fact that I was two days away from spinach and whatever other vitamins I was lacking. I was so tired and sore, and had run out of multivitamins days ago. Maybe this was the lasting effect of ever having taken vitamins and then stopping, and it seemed a cruel gesture to do anything but soak, knowing over all I should walk away from the world entirely. It was beginning to feel a lot like there was no escape from the constant and persistent ask to the universe for peace, protection, and wealth—and no end to the work that had been done, but had yielded not much to prosper.

I think that's the point though, so that you second guess your own judgement—

That your intrinsic sense of energy

Seems to have betrayed you

And leaves you somewhat altered.

I could have sworn she had blue eyes.

She did.

Maybe they change.

That much?!

Who knows. Maybe.

One must only be bitten by a dog one good time to learn that dogs can be dangerous—and yet— I had been bitten by the blue eyed many a times and still had somehow found my way into forgiveness, if not for my own sake.

Maybe she was wearing contacts.

I used to.

I had been thinking about investing in new colored contacts to make my eyes appear lighter, and a blonde wig to soften up the dark tan I had gotten unintentionally going about in the summer—still thought, it had been a long summer of not doing anything but going to the food bank, writing, and spinning in circles about how to make money. Long bouts of trying to shut out my old life from my new one, pushing my divorce, and becoming separated entirely from anything once having to do with my name at all. Within reason, I had suffered considerably over nothing, and despite my efforts, there seemed there was nothing I could do to find gains in my own creativity. There was only seeking and never really finding, the things I needed but none of the things I wanted. Everything I owned had been once owned by someone else, besides the few items I should have not even considered my own, but belonging to the world almost as much as I had. I was tired, consistently grief stricken, and felt unwelcome entirely by the entire world—or at least—an entire generation of people that were my own, but had learned not to respect what I had become— broke, and in turn, broken.

Sometimes I want to cry like Marcy D'Arcy in the 6th season of Married With Children.

I only smile when I see the color yellow and then dream of him,

Seeking nothing but solace

At the concourse, we converse momentarily

And then go our separate ways

Forever and always

Your secrets

I smell like dirt

And arrived in the real world

Covered in blood

And scraped over the,

Over the knees,

Yes I did

Come recover then,

What you've lost from the world

Born in chaos, not quite

But almost, as we're once swarmed the waters

Keep it better quiet, now

Keep it better quiet now,

Keep it better quiet now, your secrets

There lies no tru loyalty to bands tied

On middle fingers

Besides to one's own self

And they who they shall

Desire and claim as another

Extension of God,

In her

Or their arms

There is no claim to faith or mercy

Than what comes between us,

Bombshells

As argued in chaos

—mother, you're not listening

To the call of the wild

Then now,

How am i bound to that besides being

In sanctity

The obnoxious obese man who drove the loud motorcycle up and down the street was obviously a very weak man—and he wanted the world to know it. His loud and obnoxious roaring must have overcompensated for his sloppy, fat and sagging body, which hung over the seat and sides of the motorcycle—the excessive revving of the engine must have been to let the world know that this was his power—having earned the money to ride a motorcycle; but in all other ways he was obviously lost, his slothemly and gluttonous blob of a body almost making the oversized Harley look like a play bike, his tiny penis probably covered to its top in whale blubber; he clearly had no other way to feel powerful, besides of course— being the leader of a gang of mindless peasant monkeys, who all would do anything for their own bikes—monkey see, monkey do.

Perhaps his obesity to the third world unthinking drone slaves was a sign of his dominance—or they lived in fear that he would eat them.

Obesity aside, it was his force of obnoxious harassment that had designated him as an obviously insufferably weak subhuman— much like a bully who dealt with his own faults by terrorizing others, such was the man with the Harley.

There was nothing impressive about him besides his bike—and since he had abused that with such outright offense, even that made him look stupid.

He raced his engine as if to say “look at ME! I have arrived!” But after actually glimpsing at the blob, it was hard to not laugh at it. He was hard to miss anyway, and probably should have opted for a truck or some sort of SUV to hide his intolerant and debilitating self-inflicted illness— the inability to control when and how much to eat, or how to do anything besides ride up and down the street on a motorcycle—perhaps a walk could do some good; in definite need of a jog, and a strict diet. I was embarrassed for him, and most people who weren't so obviously diseased and more in the like of self indulgent and lazy—I had once been like them, but no longer, and first and foremost I believed in respecting my neighbors, treating others as I wished to be treated. I wished to live in a quiet and safe neighborhood, but the obnoxious morbidly obese man alone was a symbol of the disastrous mark capitalism had made on the American empire—lazy, docile, greedy, potbellied idiots accounted for all too many of the world. I knew that with the desire to change, that one could change—now to force myself to believe that with the desire to succeed in something, one could succeed—I was at least trying. But the weak and uncontrolled idiots spawning from holes in the underworld and buzzing around like the pests and roaches they were reminded me that if anything, these imbiciles were decent at almost nothing but breeding other fucking idiots.

Hopefully, one day my own blood would grow up to want to work out with me, eat well, and change from appearing as his weaker half— lazy, obese idiot just the same as these, however—at the very least, the roaches were fastidious. They buzzed around under the illusion that working for the American system would grant them anything besides a motorbike and some fresh looking street wear, the attention of girls too stupid to understand that 99% of men simply weren't worth wasting time with or on, and unknowing to this or their own worth, would still do it anyway,

Some of the bikers had girls on the back; I always felt bad for the girl on the back of the motorcycle rather than jealous—I would rather be at the helm of the thing, riding it for myself.

Then, thinking back to a time before I realized how crowded cities were, sighting that there should be laws against loud vehicles in urban areas such as this— there was at lot more open road than not in LA—highways, that is, and bikes were easy to maneuver through heavy traffic. New York was another story—congested, overpopulated, and now filled with a disease which added to its decay at a quicker rate than ever. The illegal immigration crisis was much like a rodent or insect infestation, but harder to control—one simply could not exterminate millions of actual humans, and yet, the problem was still the same— this was a disease, a pest infestation, as most of the immigrants weren't working, but simply subsisting on the taxpayers dollars they were allocated and finding ways not to work; they were parasites, many of them set to explode with more parasites. We had indeed been infiltrated, and made to pay for it, both in restlessness, and in dread. Culturally inept to most decencies as even the crudest Americans had been bred with, many although not all roamed around like feeble minded children in brand new Nike wear, munching on fast food and candy as if guests to some kind of amusement park—however, to the thoroughbred tax paying Americans, this was no amusement; it was a distressing, eye opening wake up call that something had gone terribly wrong, on the already overworked working class' time and hard earned money. It might have seemed cold and calloused to think of them as rodents—but, always observant, I also much believed in calling a duck a duck; most of them were not respectful, pushed and shoved, threw trash everywhere— and left their minor children to roam about or even put them to work, unaware of what child labor laws were; they used their unborn children as anchors to be able to stay where neither they were truly welcome or belonged, bloating the welfare system and benefitting from funds that had been laid to them with taxpayers dollars.

The United States of America had its own problems, and its own citizens being overlooked, once again the needs of continually systemized blacks and other minorities falling victim to this new wave of people to care for.

The capitalists had sold out the working class once and for all—the immigrants needed to go, and probably would, eventually tiring of the unattainable American dream we all had been sold, but they had been gimmicked into attempting to create— all to supplement an oncoming election. An election which really gave the people no choice at all, besides gawking, debating ignorantly about misinformation, and of course—intrinsically siding with the good old American narcissism which would force them to take the side of whoever supported who looked like them— the Latino vote was obviously an important factor—and of course the polished machismo and Latin pride of those being supplemented by the income of their friends and relatives come to stay, though unknowingly, chunks of money out of their own tax paying pockets, would vote for the most lenient immigration plans—probably the safest bet, the presidential office mere puppetry at all anymore. However, it had been obvious that the Right has set The Left up for disaster by allowing the black to have been shifted blue—though the rational explanation for the reallocated funding fell directly and logistically to the right. The Oval itself, empty and the actual control belonging to the wealthiest billionaires and corporations whose hopes of the thousands of migrants becoming their corporate slaves had mostly backfired terribly. With any hope, many of them would take what they could, and travel back below the border where life was simple, food was fresh, and without need to play the part of the facade of the American dream—no need for the material goods and fashionable street wear supplied by the American taxpayers—no need for iPhones and all of the decorations the taxpayers had supplemented for them—no need to live up to the ridiculous standards of actually being an “American”, which in reality, by now meant working so much that there was no peace, there was no rest, and there was no real freedom—and as a working class or poverty level citizen, having to compensate for everything and everyone around you, always working harder for less— and purposely being kept back and behind as the wealthy elite closed their circles tighter, shutting out the ugly, the brown and black, and those deemed unworthy out of their precious world.

{Enter The Multiverse}

Secret President

Make the old man laugh–

–make The Old Man break a sweat

Make the old man dance

(Make The Old Man Young Again)

Make The Old Man dance, I said

Wise Owl

My server be your server;

My proxy, thine proxy…

WHOOPI GOLDBERG (as The Cosmic Owl) sits crouched over a nest of stone and earthen metals of precious kind, enchanting within the thick smoke of incense and fragrant oils, with a whispered chant, evoking with spirit and summoning with force–a spell of all spells; a worldly ritual. Her golden turban matches the embellishments; the royally fashioned robe and chains around her neck, bangles and ribbons of gold and silver draped with the hooded cape of which the grand sleeves, falling into the grand purple flowing train of the cascading draperies.

Meanwhile…

Come on, we don't got all day…

–”we”?

I don't got time!

MEANWHILE,

CHRISTOPHER WALKEN awaits at the corridor of an unknown marker, inside of a train station–which appears altogether to be in a different time; altogether a different place; the period of his dress appears perhaps late 1800's; his pocketwatch, which he checks sporadically–also golden.

ALSO MEANWHILE

So this is Casper, huh?

This–yeah.

The friendly ghost.

Well–

AGH.

He used to be, anyway.

Why are you not making any sense!?

I asked for PROTECTION!

I gave you LIGHT!

That's not a protection! It's a target!

What the fuck ar eyou talking about?

*vampire*

{instant kills vampire}

*demon*

{Instant kills demon}

THESE THINGS EAT LIGHT.

Well. I don't know how to help you.

Get me out of here!

I can't do that!

i told u i was deadmau5, man.

Wtf.

wait , like, all of it?

ya.

shoot that nigga.

LIVE:

All the Niggaz is getting shooted at.

EVERYONE ELSE

…that was already happening, tho.

WHITE SUPREMACISTS

*shrugs*

*drinks another bottle of coca cola*

*trashes entire planet*

*doesn't feel*

Lol

BLANG-BLANG.

MEANWRHILE:

DEADMAu5

NO, I'm TEsTPiLOT

Whatever, dog.

KILL THAT N–

DEADMAU5

LOOK AT MA DIK.

…ok.

Wasn't there another scene after this?

I dunno, I got dick-stracted.

Yikes

UNTIE ME.

UNITY.

UNITYYYYYYYYYYY.

WHAT.

UNTIE ME FROM THIS–THING.

No, actually, I think you should stay there.

The most bizzare thing happened this morning.

The most bizzare thing ever, to have happened to me, ever—which is saying a lot l— but

I was scratching my head, and all of a sudden,

This tiny fingernail—

An itty, bitty teeny-tiny fingernail, like,

Dislodged itself from my soul or something—

Fell out of my hair,

Okay, God. What.

This baby fingernail—

Like, okay it could be like a newborn big toe nail or like,

A one month's old like actual finger

Aww, I just used to bite them. They were so little I didn't want to cut them with the clippers.

Their little fingers

You don't want to accidentally—

You know,

They're just so soft.

Awws.

What the fuck, God.

That makes no sense.

I've been primarily by myself for like—ever—

And anytime I'm in public, I'm wearing a hat—

My wash machine is only used by me, thank god and

What the fuck does this mean?

Mad Men is an American period drama TV series that aired on AMC from 2007 to 2015. The show follows the lives of the people who work at a New York advertising agency in the 1960s, and focuses on the professional and personal life of Don Draper, a talented but mysterious ad executive.

{Enter The Multiverse}

GET—OUT OF MY WAY.

What are you doing?!

MOVE.

Is this a code four?

Far beyond code four!

Oh my!

What could it be?!

Move! This is a serious matter!

The NBC pages are in a frenzy, pushing and shoving one another frantically, turning 30 Rockefeller plaza into an animalistic jungle of confusion and chaos.

What is going on.

The games—sir.

The—games?

The. games. Sir.

I–m– afraid I don't know what you're talking about

You should be afraid! Be very afraid. Because the games.

What “games”

The GAMES have begun.

CUT TO:

Seth Meyers stands in the mirror comparing two exactly identical ties— he appears to be talking to himself, asking

SETH MEYERS

how do you like this tie?

—to no response.

He uncomfortably shifts and switches to the other, exactly identical tie.

Or this?

Yo. What a creep.

Again, to no response, he waits a moment and switches to the first, exactly identical tie, with an assertive nervousness.

SETH MEYERS CONT'D

You're right, the first one. Yeah.

He completes tying his tie, then placing his hands in his pockets, still facing the mirror—quite enamored with himself. He leans up onto his toes and then back onto his heels, admiring himself before spinning around to face the anterior of the room;

SETH MEYERS

It's showtime.

He points his fingers animatedly at his mock audience—now we see that the room is filled top to bottom with stuffed animals, puppets, dolls, and other strange likenesses…

Hold up, i'm distracted

Just stick to what you know.

Most of the Saturday Night Alumni and Late Night hosts had long, noteworthy careers in comedy, hefty writing backgrounds, and tons of experience in television. I found myself out of place and grasping at straws, letting something come for a moment between myself and my sanity. I did know music—but wasn't the girl with her shit together enough to have made any kind of dent in my obviously gaping music career, with the additional workload of what may have been the work of a genius, but also a madwoman—or mad man, depending on whose essence or presence happened to take hold of my weary and feeble soul, or

Distracted again

[the news] (the actual news)

Whatever (Wednesdays) - your weekly dose of whatever.

The Audio Files (for Audiophiles and Music Producers/ Engineers)

That was all I could remember off of the top of my head, not that it mattered at all, actually. I was grasping as strings and between worlds— the winner of the contest had beautiful pictures, and had played festivals—her website was flawless, and I liked her, later finding that she was Greek. I didn't seem to mind women, so long as they weren't the hateful, competitive, and typically racist—even on both sides—American type, and I scanned the list of participants that had been American to see if any of them were black women—doubtable, though in the New York scene some black women had seemingly out of nowhere taken to techno, and with that I had shifted gears to make my production more focused in bass and dubstep, if I were ever to return to my state of producing at heavy volume. I hadn't, with so much on my plate to juggle or rather spin, and I had been in quite the bubble of for whatever reason l trying to solve the puzzle of what had suddenly become what seemed like an NBC sponsored charade through the inner workings of my mind, only to find that not only was I not qualified, but also not entirely capable of doing any of the jobs I wanted to, and with that notion had settled once again comfortably in the cradle of suicide, hating everyone and everything around me—and using Tina Fey's book as an alter to light my prayer candle, all the while knowing someone had left it there—the book, along with a collection of surf themed relics, especially for me.

I had been thoroughly warned about Jimmy Fallon. He was an impressive egotist—- walked amongst rightfully the elite, was highly competitive, and powerful. He was not the kind of man you tell ‘no', even if you were, like me, entirely unsure as to what the question was—his eloquence had been understated, the design of it all, unique, in a way that it all seemed to speak of a time before time— I was immovably always fond of the Greeks

Lost, was the old world,

Our own,

Bound by candle light;

Marked by wisdom,

Enrichment,

Cherished times,

Beseeched the throne,

A mask of wands,

The arch of Tryerdom,

I am the arms of therefore

What was once,

The whole of body,

As a man or womankind,

Seeks to know a God—

They are as one,

And all of us,

Beyond the shroud of time,

A whimsy befallen, like leaves upon us

Overgrown the garden of Adam,

Wrought with fruit,

Which rotten lies upon the tide,

So soaked with formidable ocean

She or he therefore has lost

The touch of truth,

The seekers wisdom,

All are none again,

And so shall fall the empire

They called us upon as ours.

—in God we Trust.

Amen.

Fuck, man.

How am I supposed to—

What do you call it?

—summon.

Summon a fucking—

What's it?

God.

—God…up on this fucking soundstage without the entire audience or anyone else noticing.

You figure it out.

How, though?

What the fuck.

It takes a lot of impressive achievements to get into the page program.

Yeah, but .

I would assume your studies in practical magic to be at the very least—

—Doing what now?

Adequate—if not satisfactory.

You are weird.

This is weird.

I paid cash, and I expect results.

Whatever.

Now, be careful with those tablets.

We wouldn't want anyone dangerous getting a hold of them.

Anyone like who?

{Enter The Multiverse}

Do your job;

I'll do mine.

When we go, we go—

And when we go…

The man emerges from below the surface of the water, gasping for breath; as the water drips down from his hair and face, back into the water, as the splash echoes into a dull chorus of dripping, his mouth open, gaping, as if he had just awoken from a nightmare; he breathes deeply as something in him recollects before the blur of the world sets in to become a clear and crisp, colored world.

We go the way we came—

At once, and Alone.

As if no one could know where we've just come from—

Or where we must go.

But we must go.

“Cosmos Factory”

This could be fatal.

—but isn't everything.

He's not breathing.

Call an ambulance.

nurse!

Call a paramedic.

The paradigm shifted as I departed one world and entered the next.

In a fit of blind rage and fury, also came an excitement; I was accomplished.

The man is distinguished, late 40's to early 50's, with dark, lush hair.

Soon, you know, it will all be grey.

It can't be.

What do you mean it's ‘empty'?

This is not the place!

What place?

This is not the place that it was!

Ah, so this is Cosmos Factory.

I thought that was a comedy.

I was hoping it would be.

Here it is.

I was wondering what was in there.

I'm still waiting to see what's in Mrs. Gillipsie's refrigerator.

Well, keep waiting. I've got a few more chapters in this memoir and I can't be bothered with trying to figure out why Johnny Depp is the narrator in the voiceover—

My God, how you've changed.

Well, yes— I am a changeling.

Not to mention your improvements in shapeshifting.

Actually, let's not mention it.

very well.

Whatever, man.

Tom.

Is it?

It should be.

Whatever. Come in.

Oh. What a lovely portal you have.

—shut up.

But the man reemerging from his practical baptismal submergence is none other than —

I don't think he's capable of a role like this.

He isn't—which is why I wrote it like this.

You know, by the time the actual writers get their hands on this, there will be so many rewrites it will be hard to imagine or recognize you even wrote it.

That's—already becoming a sort of paradoxical challenge.

Of course it is. You shifters never have any idea the kind of repercussions coming, or, the endless— and I mean —endless realms—

—infinite—

Endless. Things are rarely infinite actually besides the things that always were, henceforth—infinite—

Of course,

Always having been and always will be.

Got it.

So. Do you understand the kind of effort it takes as a collective to have come up with a work like this?

I understand the benefit of having opposable thumbs and an iPhone,

You think you're smart;

—when I'm thinking, at all—

But you're actually a genius; that's right, without thinking at all.

Have you thought about the characters you haven't yet created?

There are more?

The worlds you've yet to build?

I've got all my money on blowing my head off before ever actually making it as a stand up comic.

And I've got all mine on you blowing your head off, after you've made it as a stand up comic.

Now, which is it going to be?

[beat]

Statistics don't lie.

Actually, they do—

Especially in America.

North America?

South America?

You know as good as I know, I mean the Good old Goddamned USA.

That's a lot of good old goddamned, Uncle Sam.

—aha,

And Sam, I am.

Now, suit up as Dr. Suess and make sense of this.

Nothing makes sense—

If everything did, what would be the purpose?

[agreeing, simultaneously]

Puzzle Pieces.

[a moment of solidarity]

Now, pick the old man up off the ground,

And get to it.

He's not that old…

You only say that because you're older.

Let this trickle down into the body of success that I should be born at least two decades left than half a century ago.

Any less and you'd be begging for some kind of pardon for all the crimes against humanity you've caused to solidify the theoretic concept of consciousness within the occult, instead of humbly accepting the consideration for an honorary doctorate at any given Alma mater whose brotherhood of trust has bonded us through this unjust monologue to seal such in blood as a relic.

That's a lot of words.

I have hairs on my chest.

They are grey.

Congratulations,

Some of them silver.

Is that a riddle?

If it were, would there be so many puzzle pieces?

I think that would take this whole thing out of balance.

Manage your axis.

Bid you well.

Severance.

“The Occult Classic”

HOTDOG-HOTDOG.

{Enter The Multiverse}

[The Festival Project.™]

-Ū.

Showrunner: Matt Weiner

Peggy: Elizabeth Moss

...more

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