For real, these people are distrustful of happy coincidences, no longer playing games of consequence or truth, bumbling along on bad advice submitted anonymously through layers of bureaucracy that confiscated itself violently, called itself epithets and trailed after covens of decision-makers punished by history, maligned by repetitive legalese unleashed indignantly but decisively upon crowded rivers and threatened rain. Don’t allow yourself the confidence to know what handshakes cloister butchery, which backslaps harken new religions bent on destruction of mythical libraries plundered Hollywood-style by freedom-pointing global computer networks operated entirely by laundry machines and sunny afternoons, secretly jumbling hundreds of good reasons to bask in dreary luxury among pedestrian sunsets flowing like an army of snails through unspoken affairs.