Once upon a time, for our perceptions but a fog of yesteryear's, there was a lonesome boy, longing for a friendly devotion. And there was a forsaken puppy, dreaming of finding a strong arm to protect and care for it. The boy was the industrial revolution and the puppy's name, a proud denomination indeed, was the humanity. But here, in the hallucinatory entity called Atlasia by presumptuous, abortive tongues inhabiting it, we have forsaken the kind boy and moved straight into the icy, grabbing, ever-jealous and proprietorial arms of the merciless computing apparatus. An abominable moloch, feared deity of horrid disagreeability. Yet no Moloch can thrive without its' priests, feeding it's atrocious appetites with bloody offerings. The priest of this dreadful Moloch are the so-called Atlasian politicians, and the offerings are misguided souls, shamelessly swindled into registering. By this they have signed off their yet to be enlightened minds and yet to developed senses of perception, allowing themselves to be swallowed by the appalling beast, instead of pursuing true awakening by drinking from the fountain of historical accuracy. The priest of Moloch's may attempt to murder this message by reporting it, but they cannot dispute the accuracy of enlightenment we offer. That we deny them with scorn and denigration, for they are but rankest compounds of villainous smell, fasting quenchingly on rotten flesh and drinking an odious synthesis of satan's urine and alcoholic shoemaker's sweat.
God delete some crappy TLs or something.
