Most common entries make this or that great name of history a herald who chanced to tune the music to which we dance today, thus letting us keep dancing the same while wishing anything but dancing to this shit, so out-and-out, this another sheet of paper, in the sense of memorising our dead selves while explaining away, by not letting it slip in, the recollection-toward. ALL is coming to tell! Us: the two madmen who chose a free fall from the bridge the last year intimate that it is all about death, and we are free to live free from it by being, anyhow, quite dead to the world. NOW, GAZA? The lack of any relation of words to reality, ah? SO, let us come with Comey. It’s good for someone-somewhere.