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A nomad I will remain for life, in love with distant and uncharted places. Forever wandering in contentment of the crush of unknown soil, the smell of unknown air, and the sights from unknown peaks.

What can I do about the people who adore all that is new, even when it goes against their deepest convictions, or about the insincere, corrupt press, and the inane herd that saw beauty or poetry in something which was basically no more than a desperate impassioned call for murder?