thoughtscript The party will continue ad nauseam, but not ad perpetuum (for nothing is)

Fame is only interesting as a weapon If and Because

1) it cuts through the dress-straps of women and their beguiling pretenses, and their fictions, the little thread at which they hover, throw and withdraw the bed-bait of sex, the burning-ether dice on which the gamblers’  eyes attach by the magnetic pin in the iris that only a man transports, doubly devout in his irises, both named after a beguiling or revealing female Egyptian.
2/ It is a more effective and satisfying revenge towards defendants /enemies who figure highly among the respected and the respectable. The weapon of revenge, fame, is a more respectable revenge against the respectable (of any, either sex or of any of of three thousand proud hermaphroditisms) than pushing them down a staircase, for example, could e’er prove to be.
(It would prove to be an error, as would later be lighted, legally, and an error not be burned away like ether and a match eat the evidence.
Even if by closing one’s dog-eyes to the consecutive decades in prison made the executive effect blank, none of the threat of prison and its suppositories administered in the lavatory, still it is not the top vendetta.)
3) It is Power, one of the only kinds of power a thinking person can have while still being poor and a poor wretch.
The other sort of such Power, (the letters of the word drip in any alephbetic system-script) that one can have while being very poor, is born from the barrel of a gun–but that sort of power can and will end the poverty of the very poor robber, either by success or death, guaranteed.
Power IS economy, even if Fama comes with small checks smelling of biscuits in the fanta-smelling mouths of rich men and rich women, who held a dripping wet biscuit in their mouths as they worked the pen to sign a miserable cheque.
Power can also be best identified, by unto where it leads. Usually this should not be the morgue or its precincts, rather,
Power leads unto
A) The courtrooms.
B) The bedrooms.
(these two are opposites. The courtrooms are always wet and the bedrooms dry themselves like deserts in the inter-morning and inter-valvula. The courtrooms are diabolical power invoking heaven. The bedroom if ecstatic is infernal but mediocre men will invoke heaven vocally)
C) the envy of the journalist, who is more romantic than the writer or poet. The journalist, if any good, envies the writer because he knows he is inferior.
The journalist must envy the writer like a street dog envies a wolf or a large fox who enjoys much sexual success. The wolf does not need to be romantic, what is left to romanticize? The street dog can romanticize the prairie dog, the comedian-hysteric hyena, the jackal who got the keys in his mouth to the other world and the only, first and last courthouse and paradise. Paradise, which is a house consisting only of infinite fragrant bedrooms, all with open doors and windows to a mountain garden-yard, where the jackals sit, look at the curtains with their mouths open, their tongues have the shape of long old keys to ancient pogrom-demolished homes.
If that is not the case, or if it be the opposite–as is the case in our times–it means the devil and the dogs have won.
The journalist surveils like a hungering ferret who stole a gondola and is chased by the police. The journalist races hungering, dog-tongue in the breeze, lunges after the romance he believes in, wants, lacks. No matter how scrupulously dressed, despite his accolades and his cold logical cologne spritzed unto ammonia, the most vulgar of artist-writers (if they have talent, and even if they don’t have the talent but only a persona) (persona, a Roman hat-trick, stolen and copycatted from the Persians, formerly a Persian turban-trick) must make the journalist goad with the envious precious evil, evil from the raccoon tail folded up in their journalist pants

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