Walking from the scene of some humiliation feeling like a dog. Walking from
the scene of some romantic triumph feeling like God.

Walk towards the small town lights felt brighter than the lot of them. Can
have everything, can never fail. The will to power, the force of destiny
and efficiency. Generations glimpse the high pitch, play it for real.
Four billion spectators look on, judging, analysing, losing, sinking,
sinking, swimming, striving, longing, failing. Weak flesh projected
through Europe on the speed of all the needs, suck and sate, forces of
fate. A polemic, a sharp cutter, a fashion, a spirit, a simplicity. The
only choice, the only voice in the darkness. The only choice, the only
voice. 1933, where are you now? Where are the broken bottles? Where's
the toffs slumming it? Where's the fanaticism? Where's truth and beauty?
Where's truth and beauty?