how easily an infantile and innocent a tourist attraction can gain momentum of an iceberg process of revealing unsaid yet easily thought out things.*
i'm like a jan matejko harlequin - the stańczyk gloomed over the loss of smoleńsk, the stańczyk - as if a mongolian presence - the lajkonik of st. mary's noon trumpet call where a mongolian arrow pierced the musician's throat... a big ben of the east a radio reprimand of beep beep beep... weeping over england in the night sitting on a wooden stump with sunglasses... oh woe... oh woe! may my heart serve as both sword and shield, O england! i am but like the matejko harlequin (the stańczyk), i am but the memory of mongols in europe (the lajkonik)... may i simply record the fates of nations, and merely acknowledge my own dearly departed wishing a return to and severing friendships grasped in this my so called home lost; why the abortion of my thought to reclaim high school education in a home without allowable citizenship, and why my necessitating to keep the homage tongue of birth usable on the ready... half of europe disappeared with post-colonialism and lack of empire building! so bloodied and monochromatic! oh but i had nothing to do with it, i simply woke into this nightmare! now i'm accused for transgressing social rubrics!