One in seven billion. One of those who work forces.
The faintest whiff of the merest hint of the barest trace of the slightest whisper of the ancient echo of a passing rumor thinly suggestive of half a notion vaguely reminiscent of the long faded legend of just one effortlessly authentic gesture of absolutely any kind, is worth immeasurably more than every flatulent effort from every feckless eunuch of every flaccid epoch: the sleaze of pretense, and the gall to insist the pretender is clean.
Almost everyone can bite me.
