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OUR HAPPILY POWERLESS CORE
In
a disordered imagination lies the source
of human
un-
happiness.
It makes us wander across the seas from one
fantasy
to another, and if its spell leaves us in the end, it
is
by then too late; the hour strikes and the man dies, de-
testing
life.
-Napoleon
The
terrible struggles, gun-boat gray, gray fog and
mist against chalk cliffs at Dover,
historical
rampages, swarm of weird Mongols
who seemed to take such rare pleasure in destruction.
endless
forced marches, the French into Moscow
in winter led by such a
diminutive Napoleon
the
comebacks of fraudulent despots, their
gargantuan struggles to win a few
years
or months, or even just a
few days of power,
the
power-mad, lusting for supreme
command and
authority, over life and
death, to their
own satisfaction, the
wobbly Fun House Mirror that
portrays them gigantic, heads as
large as the globe, bodies mere
limp
macaroni—
the
earth's surface
rutted with these
hobnail boot tyrants that are our
own
selves seeking advantage
over the light of our already
happily powerless core
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