The Samson Complex

From E71 to N96

The backspace provides me with a symmetry unlike any other when it comes to my barber. Unwittingly transformed in terms of the face weeks back and battling it with attempts to mimic the conscript I have never been, I am also given by the Russian manning the first chair right, to the left-to-right side-parting. No bottle ever let me down, but the no. 53 in atomic numbers was no honey. Veneers can attest too. Having then my finger to pronounce the murmur of a Sabatier Lion, the cut comes as a conclusion to the lack of garlic over my front door. The people across have after all sooted their door-frame twice; you knew that. There is only so many crosses to go around! Each his own. That is one. Unless the mighty dogmas, followed by equally gargantuan banquets surround you. I am not searching for the Hemingwayian "true sentence" yet the simulacrum portrayed as synecdoche rung a bell. In the lack of a topos, Ikea proliferates, in whatever shade, technically incorrect flakes provide asylum-bound leeways, new potatoes steam your nasal hair, red plastic chairs double up as cutlery. I also spilled a whole Bialleti 4 cup pot of Fazenda Rodomunho and throttled a 2-day old router by making it aware of an arcane archive of pro-active domestic activists and trailblazers.

I need a wig.
Amen.