when i become a dictator, i will do as many have done. i will round up all the intellectuals, and put them to work stacking books of poetry neatly in piles of 100. they will then lie upon the mattresses of their work, before i get my soldiers to light them a pyre to remember them by. the world shall not have seen the likes of such a bonfire.

upon their ashes then the wind will blow. the world will be temporarily bereft of poetry except of what is left in that hazy dust, and then life can go on.

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