A semi-poetic, unfocused, whiskey-soaked rant about the sweet spot between isms and that our choices in ideologues is a pack of false shaman preaching horseshit.
He’s a man who seems older than he is as he stoops over a broom and pushes dried leaves and debris off the street. His task is never-ending. Day or night, you will find him cleaning the square under the shadow of the castle.
A semi-poetic, unfocused, whiskey-soaked rant about the sweet spot between isms and that our choices in ideologues is a pack of false shaman preaching horseshit.