Black hatred is a form of defence. By this I mean for the object of hate. The stories are true that boys were looking at each other, saying, show me a girl who won't be comparing me to a list she can hardly remember. Films about underground clubs may be available, but note the ease with which money can alter small details, which only a few nutcases here and there will assert has happened, by saying, no, computer graphics of the kind used in the intro to the Meaning of Life was not available in the early nineteen eighties.
Besides that actors are particularly vain--particularly especially porpoises.
So we're left with the question of who benefits. And I can show you a fraction of the population that is not half that revels in a situation that allows them to claim proprietorship over what's natural: because such is the power people can have over others.
Now we must recall the dictator conundrum, which means that unless fleeing is on the cards, one thing or another must be attended to: the populace is that vicious.
This does, in fact, have a double meaning for me. Hoping to pick up where I left off is forgetting the bad influences that gave me the idea that 'they' haven't the slightest interest in self-taught idealists. I'm reaching the rim of my pudding powl in various directions now: it might be time to look at what I felled some weeks back.
But I need to know that I'm not going to be 'reached out to' with a reminder of what people wouldn't look at when I asked them to, and as if I aught to be making overtures of friendship so that I can go on looking at something I made that no-one is interested in looking at: a thing which was shown to me as not my property after I had spent time trying to work out how to divide the various projects so that all parties would be happy.
I am not in any way making a jest when I say that for that act alone I expect a full million rand. In other words, that's what it will cost any former acquaintance to speak to me.