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Q Report: Song of The Libtard.

To Sleeper Agents et All,

Masturbation in the 21st century is a sad business. Probably it always has been. Brief, glorious access to fantastic, personal, yet vicarious sex, followed by profound emptiness, boredom, and shame. The same roaring pathos experienced by the noble salmon who, having spread their eggs and seed on river rocks, have the good sense to die. In literature, it is no different. Erasmus claimed all great thoughts were to be had in antiquity, but I wonder what Erasmus would think about VR porn? Maybe don’t stop dreaming, kids. It may very well turn out all those dead white guys didn’t know fuck all about shit. They call that postmodernism.

My true voice, that one that eludes me in the mediocrity of daily activity, is a lonely howl into a dispassionate night. It is the rollicking sailor song of the condemned and the damned. It is an earnest plea to future generations, who might be able to sift through all the bullshit literature of the early 21…

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