pcbutts1, <pcbutts1@gmail.com>, the subsidised, communist gnat, and
mercenary and gun runner, beamed:
BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! You snotfucked idiot. Where the fuck do you get
off? First the OP wrote "I'm sorry I haven't a clue what you' are talking
about!" then he wrote "What kind of wierd problems (I don't mind about one
having to be on all the time)" - and you, YOU, in your permanent brain-dead
state accuse the poster of not wanting to take advice. BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
You are one hell of a fucking netloon, you utterly mad, useless fucking
cunt.
Brian, <not@me.heh>, the cumbersome, egotistical onion head, and person
hired to open the doors to private pews in church, sibilated:
You dumb cunt.
--
For my own part, I have never had a thought which I could not set down
in words with even more distinctness than that with which I conceived
it. There is, however, a class of fancies of exquisite delicacy which
are not thoughts, and to which as yet I have found it absolutely
impossible to adapt to language. These fancies arise in the soul, alas
how rarely. Only at epochs of most intense tranquillity, when the
bodily and mental health are in perfection. And at those weird points
of time, where the confines of the waking world blend with the world of
dreams. And so I captured this fancy, where all that we see, or seem,
is but a dream within a dream.
