When entering the Gorge, leave behind all preconceptions. Let yourself be carried off on a stream of consciousness that tickles the heavens as readily as it grinds down stone.

L’ Étranger

My name is — move over, I say —

My name is Shun

And I am better;

I breed resentment

On Christmas holidays

 

My name is — how exquisite, how rare! —

My name is Posh

And I am above you;

I breed desire

At charity fundraisers

 

My name is — who are those people anyway? —

My name is Snob

And I know everything;

I breed judgment and feed

On outsiders

 

My name is — shut the door behind you, there you go! —

My name is Clique,

Always unimpressed;

I breed like an inbred,

I am mean and ugly

 

‘And my name —

hold on a minute —

my name is Willy,

Willy Restitution,

and I know your deepest fears and insecurities,

so many faults under the surface,

cracks and punctures bubbling with leakage,

I can hear them fester inside you,

so I loathe you — I loathe you and feel sorry for you,

for when tomorrow dawns and for all the days that follow

you’ll be Bloody Shun,

Hysterical Posh,

Phlegmatic Snob,

Bileful Clique,

doing your thing in oblivious delight,

feeling big by making others smaller,

applauding whatever applauds you.’

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