A place of a king of quiet villainy and secret lust. A place where the dirty dreams of every twelve-year-old man-child were visible on the bus station’s bathroom walls in hand-scrawled tattoos of ladies with oversized breasts and inappropriate female genitalia, inaccurately portrayed as a singularly dangerous triangle of doom. Those kinds of drawings set me up for a world of confusion.

It is easier to move mountains using God’s hands.

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