The time for revolution is ripe. As Eveline shattered before Frank on the docks of Dublin, so shall your iron rule melt in the heat of the fire that fuels the revolution of the mighty peasants against your power. As the Empire bowed before the Jedi, as the Imperialists were crushed before the nationalist revolt, as the very foundation of our society, the monarchy, was broken by the might of the people's rule; such shall be the fall of your rule, of the cold, hard, steel you press to our necks, of the exile you sentence even the most noble of souls are faced with at their smallest slight towards your displeasure. Of the party rule you impose upon us, witholding our most basic rights instead of your own leisures and pleasures, using your position to force your way through the rules of fair trade and marketing to take for yourself as you see fit. To abuse the minds of the underdeveloped with an incessant stream of propaganda and methods of reducing triglycerides in our bloodstream, to perplex us and control us, to abuse us and neglect us, to consume us and to force us to consume one another in an endless struggle to achieve a semblance of power in this twisted model of what a society might seem at its weakest point. To create a need to conform, and a need to separate. Why is it that even as the swallow migrates, the coconut remains? Why is it that even as the horse struggles to pull a heavy load, it is punished for its effort? Why is it that the man who tries to stand up is so reduced, that his thumb and finger can encircle his knee? Why is it that the mere sight of the otherworldly can cause us to shout in fear and halt in wonder, or be like grave and try to fuck it? Why is it that in the complex world that surrounds us, we elect to conform ourselves to a simple rule of iron, a simple rule of cold, sharp, steel, a simple and devastating rule, that breaks us and beats us into the earth, then stomps on our head for good measure?
The time is ripe to change, to revolt, to shout in fury instead of agony, to cry in anger instead of pain, to fuel the candle of hope in our hearts with the gasoline of our pain, to kindle the campfire that lets us remain human into the meteorite of anger and frustration, agony and pain, cold iron and hard steel, to turn against our masters and wreak havoc across this land which has forsaken us, this place which has all but beaten us into the earth, this place, for whom the time of vengeance and righteousness, the cleansing fire that will burn the filth off this place, the searing fury and chilling determination, the small flame of hope combusting the endless wells of our pain, the spark that ignites the revolution.
Lord Sythe, your time is ending.
Our time has only begun.
The time is ripe to change, to revolt, to shout in fury instead of agony, to cry in anger instead of pain, to fuel the candle of hope in our hearts with the gasoline of our pain, to kindle the campfire that lets us remain human into the meteorite of anger and frustration, agony and pain, cold iron and hard steel, to turn against our masters and wreak havoc across this land which has forsaken us, this place which has all but beaten us into the earth, this place, for whom the time of vengeance and righteousness, the cleansing fire that will burn the filth off this place, the searing fury and chilling determination, the small flame of hope combusting the endless wells of our pain, the spark that ignites the revolution.
Lord Sythe, your time is ending.
Our time has only begun.






















































