To Kill An Icon

A Grand Master that dwells in a transcendent realm put an awful chess match in play, which the preponderance knows not. A rectangular game board replaced the quadrangle boxing ring; thinking cap for padded gloves; yet the mass thinks in secular terms. The majority as a collective sit in their respective corner sporting cushioned mitts waiting for the precise signal to begin hand-to-hand combat with a pugnacious opponent who regales in obtrusive violence.

The Napoleons and Hitlers were but types, pointing forward to the antitype. No unpolished devices commissioned by this principal martinet. Employing a deliberate gait outside of time; shadowing bland temporal creatures that quaver inside a spell.

There is nothing so lethal as time. This one pendulum swings back and forth; the multitude clings to it with impulsive terror. To fall is to die and death is eternity. Still, death is but a consequence of time. ‘Tis strange how people cleave to that which is irresistibly fatal.

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