This is an historic picture, like the one of Abe Lincoln in front of the tent at Gettysburg, or the Shah on the tarmac as the guard kisses his hand in tears. The end of the line. A dynasty that ruled longer than apes climbed down from the trees, that gathered at night by the watering holes, socializing, introducing the newborns, that had servant birds cleaning and keeping watch, that had territory, sacro-saint in their genetic hierarchy, that gallantly fought for the hand of their maiden, perhaps even graceful, if grace were relative. The keeper weeps but not the rhino, who knows full well the extent of his solitude. First they came for my domain, then they came for my domain name. The charlatans, the thieves, the lowlifes that, like in the Westerns, shot at anything that moved, just in case they had something that could be sold, for an erection, because, well it looked like an erection! Ask questions once we took the land. Once cities are too big to fail, never mind the premise, for who reads history if you can remake it in a rollercoaster 3D, the landrover speeding away as the camera rolls and the glass full of water ripples with the footsteps? The eyes flutter full of images. Images that become myth. Myths that are exploited in print. Makes me sick. Such are the rules encoded, incorrectly, in our posse psyche.