It wasn't gnosis.
it was a license plate;
a tinnie for sale on a website;
numbers on the dashboard,
A mother appalled and confused,
but how could the mother understand?
Son's a friendless, hopelessly unsuccessful, broken jar of vagina repellent. A fascist! A Nazi! With a ("famous")Jewish grandfather (fuck that piece of shit), no less! No grandchildren from son. Oh, dear. It doesn't seem possible. On the cusp of the Autumn years.
Oh, what a shame. From good stock, too!
It's just a shame.
At least 4 ancestors with Wikipedia
articles, only two of any consolation.
And, the license plate and the
numbers on the dash confirmed
It's not confirmed, but there was a man,
a sort of mystic (albeit from the wrong neighborhood) that is rumored to be a blood-relative. Looked a bit like Wilhelm II, or The Czar, but no, no, he wasn't a Hohenzollern, and, in typical, sensationalized form, It's said that he died an old man in a Polish ghetto (he was from white Russia. Why was he in Poland, anyway?), clutching a copy of The Zohar... Right. So romantic.
It's not confirmed; the relation, but he was there in the car around noon, on the way to work today, and, in a sonorous, affected yiddish accent, he spoke at me; "You. It IS you. You were in the 44th SA brigade before you joined the Einsatzgruppe. I remember your frenzied, maniacal laughter while you and your goons first cut off my feet and then stomped my brains out all over the street. You said; 'Walk home on your stumps, kike!', and you all laughed, but your laughter was the most cruel.' I get it. I knew it would happen, but nobody believed me. My own people didn't appreciate my outspoken objection to moving us to Palestine. Uganda made more sense. You are cursed now with mein blut. It is in you. It is in your hands." It was just a coincidence with license plate numbers and the bad blood. That's all. As for whichever backwards propaganda-jockey whose headless Clydesdale resents the burden of your weight, even in death, is reading this with a sower, stupid Emma Goldman-face (rotten anarcho-whore); Your disgust and outrage toward me is the sweet, rising gas. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. It feels good. Yawn... Zzzzzzzz