Unfortunately, I am the patient. No license, no office, no capital, equity, nor much currency. I feel relegated to giving what I can to a lynch mob of persons unaware of their Trotskyist reductionist pogrom agendas or, elsewhere of their theological prejudices. Above and beyond the scatterings of the variably sustained exists in all places the primary industry centers and their currencies. I am excluded from all these licensure organizations. I say that only youths can pursue the pertinent licensure of their particular state. It is the only way sans the emergent capital of the subsequent class.
Walk down the street without your bionic eyes scanning and downloading the thesis of each passer by and you will see variability only in garb and certain pigmentations. Concocted tribalism of each proximal group seem the the regional secret society identities of this federation whilst all regions exclude themselves from all complicity in exclusion and prejudice. I exist without the context of any prescribed licensure yet with a disability check. I can neither rise nor fall. As such, I find retreat my only option. Hermitage with a domain and the failed delusion of device omnipotence has been causal of my fantastic metaphor of a Morse key powered by a blasting machine and linked to the internal grid using tree spikes and a butt set. For decades I have known myself exiled by virtue of crossing the Mason Dixon limitrophe. Some dialectical and behavioral schism has terrorized my arrivals and departures as though I am perpetually surrounded by mobs epitomizing a hatred for a proverbial “them”.
If only there were a federal agency with the power of a mind sequence singularity and able to intonate through the customs and glyphs and binary codes or meet with persons beyond the perimeters of the great machine… somehow still able to link into some central agency capacity for the requisite.
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